


new year's eve

by chellian



Series: Aid-verse [4]
Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autism, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Activities, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellian/pseuds/chellian
Summary: Weimar’s children were born at midnight.A midnight welcoming the new decade, a midnight mocking the entire German family.They had just lost a war, and are now paying heavily for it; raising children in these trying times would be more challenging.Food for one son was enough.-West Germany's life.
Relationships: France/Germany (Anthropomorphic)
Series: Aid-verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577644
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	new year's eve

**Author's Note:**

> this is my special one-shot for New Year!!! hurray!  
> the one-shot was supposed to be in France's point of view and entirely set in the late 50's, but i can't rly immerse myself into her pov so i changed it towards West over here, bc i love torturing him uwu  
> i hope i interpreted his autism very well, and i regret only knowing abt the way that Nazis treated their autistic children yesterday, and it was really, REALLY messed up (like, 800 children euthanised? eugh). i also hope that i developed West's character OUTSIDE of being autistic. i may or may not have accidentally mixed in a few of my adhd symptoms and i'm sorry if i did, so to the peeps who are autistic reading this, please give me valid criticism on the comments, thank you!

Weimar’s children were born at midnight.

A midnight welcoming the new decade, a midnight mocking the entire German family.

They had just lost a war, and are now paying heavily for it; raising children in these trying times would be more challenging.

Food for one son was enough.

Weimar prays for a son— if his mother had heard his wishful thinking, she would’ve grabbed him by the ear and lecture him to death.

Having a son would be much better than having a daughter.

But it seems that the continents had heard his prayers— they had both granted and refused his wish.

A daughter came out first.

Her father had been disappointed.

Then a  _ son _ came out next.

He had  _ twins _ .

He feels a mixture of happiness and fear.

Having a child in this new era for the Germans is already risky.

Imagine having two?

Imagine feeding your family with your limited money and salary.

Someone’s hand touches his shoulder, taking his eyes off of the woman who had given him children recovering, and the midwives cradling her — they are  _ his _ now — children. His emerald eyes turn to his proud mother, beaming up at him, her smile as white and shiny as the pearl necklace she was wearing.

“Congratulations, Weimar”, she says, “you have  _ twins _ .”

He gives his mother a faint smile; better if she does not see him hurting. “Thank you, mother. By the way, where is Grandfather?”

She crosses her arms, “That old man had the audacity not to show up at his great-grandchildren’s birth.”

He chuckles lightly, “Well, he’s hated bastards since the first day.”

“Oh, don’t say that! He’s a conservative man, and his opinions should not matter once you’re raising your child.”

He laughs, “I suppose.”

* * *

When he finally got to hold his children, there were noticeable differences between each twin.

His daughter had his brown hair and emerald eyes, and somewhat plump. He cannot help but smile at her slumbering figure.

His son, on the other hand, inherited his father’s features— the golden blonde hair and sea-blue eyes. The resemblance was quite uncanny, and Weimar had to get used to holding him and his surprisingly light frame.

Now, he waits for the continents to bless him with his children’s immortal names.

He waits for a few minutes, cradling his children as they rest in his arms; he’ll know when the continents will grant him their names.

A few more minutes later, he feels a spark in his head— like he had been struck by lightning during a thunderstorm, or like the flares of the sun had burnt his body to a crisp.

He looks at his newborn twins; sea-blue eyes stare back at him.

“Why are you awake,  _ mein kleiner Westen _ ?” He coos, staring back at those small pairs of eyes.

The boy is West, and the girl is East.

Weimar blinks; those were quite peculiar names.

He stared back at West— his eyes were still open.

His brows furrow.

* * *

West only started to speak once he was twenty four months old.

East had said her first word when she had been a year old.

(“ _ Papa _ .” He had started crying when she had said that.)

When he had turned his eyes towards West, he was oblivious to his surroundings, still concerning himself with the toys Weimar had brought for him and East.

He narrows his eyes towards his son, before brushing it off; he’ll speak his first word when he is ready.

He just did not know how long.

Weimar had already gotten impatient with his voicelessness a month after East started speaking— he tried accentuating his words, pointing at everything he looked at, telling West what they were whenever the two spent time together.

He has also noticed West’s other peculiar habits; such as his frequent avoidance of eye contact, or his withdrawal to social activities, only staring at social gatherings and guests without having the desire to take part of it himself.

But these attempts to make him talk were futile— and he already sees the disapproving looks and whispers that are circulating their family, about his mute son.

He already feels the shame.

Why can’t his son just act like he is a normal baby?

If these behaviors still persist all the way to childhood, he’ll have to consult Austria.

He fears the inevitable for his son.

* * *

West was never that interested in speaking, even when his father would persuade him to speak as he draws out words from his tongue. He understands what his father is trying to get him to do— to speak just a single word, and that will be enough for him. But West can tell his father certain things just from certain movements— like tugging on his pants when he feels left out, or raising his arms up so that he can carry him.

Therefore, he did not need to speak; his sister can understand him and what he wants, so his father should not have any trouble translating his movements for him.

But as time progresses, Weimar has become more and more forceful in making him speak.

It overwhelms him; overwhelms him a lot, that he’d cry on days end, and his sister is the only person to grant him solace.

However, his supposed insolence made Weimar give more attention to his sister, and forced him to the sidelines completely.

He did not know why.

Did he do something wrong?

He wants his father’s attention, just enough for him to be reminded that he  _ is _ loved and someone out there deemed him as special.

He spoke his first words when his father had been making breakfast for the both of them.

Weimar smiles at his son, who was busily avoiding eye contact by flipping a recipe book from page-to-page. “Do you like milk and porridge for your breakfast,  _ mein Mond _ ?”

His face scrunches up in disgust; he never liked porridge to begin with. It was comparable to slop at the most. He shakes his head, “No no, I don’t like that.”

His father freezes, and he turns his head to look back at West, his head still in that book.

He sighs, not from relief or joy or even pride, but from exasperation. “Well, it was about time, West.”

That was the last time he used nicknames for him.

What did he do wrong?

* * *

Weimar rants about his son’s peculiarities towards Austria over a cup of morning tea.

“He is— he is  _ difficult _ to understand!” He vents, “He avoids eye and physical contact with me — he allows East to touch him a few times before — he did not  _ speak _ until he was two years old, he is not interested in socializing with other children, he is picky with his food, and he could not even make the appropriate faces like a normal baby would!” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It is exasperating to raise him. Is there something wrong with my child?”

Austria thinks for a moment, taking a sip of his tea, before looking back at him. “There must be something wrong with his brain, then.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“I might have to do some further research, but consider the hypothesis that your son might be different from others.”

“It is obvious that he is different; even our family members have thought so as well.”

Austria nods amiably. “The whispers were enough for me to know.”

“I did not know that the twins’ differences would reach this certain level of heights. East has always been the more sociable of the two, and she smiles and acts politely to the elderly. Meanwhile West is an insolent child who doesn’t know what manners are.”

“If you can make West go outside, then give me a call.”

“Of course.”

* * *

One day, Weimar had the entire German family — the cities, the provinces, his remaining relatives — in his small and quaint home, taking up the already cramped space inside as they thunder inside with their heels and shoes, talking loudly in German.

The noise makes West cover his ears, whimpering slightly; he just wants to eat the food his father had prepared, but Weimar forbade the both of them to eat while the guests are still here.

He feels overwhelmed, and his stomach growling in hunger.

Just a single bite was enough to satisfy him.

Thank god for East though, keeping him busy by playing with him.

He stares at his Great-Grandfather Prussia’s plate intently, taking note of his small bites and satisfied face. He seemed to be in his own world.

Then his dark eyes come into contact with West’s.

He scoffs, before shouting at his father, “Weimar! Your son is staring at me like a homeless man!”

Weimar squeaks inaudibly, before running up to his son and slapping him on the face. “I  _ told _ you not to stare at people like that! It makes them uncomfortable and it is very,  _ very _ rude, West!”

West only whines at the pain on his cheek, while East gasps and is immediately on his face to check the bruise.

Weimar did not concern himself with how hurt his child is, before sending an apologetic look towards his grandfather. “My deepest apologies, he hasn’t been with other people and he usually gets what he wants! I’ll discipline him, I promise!”

Prussia sighs disapprovingly, “You better.”

West just wants to eat.

* * *

Weimar has had enough of West always being inside, refusing to socialize (even when he asks him nicely).

Why can’t he just be like East?

He puts on his fedora, putting on his tie. He turns to West, who was burying his nose in a fictional novel.

(The boy loved books, and it was something he could never take away from him.

After all, maybe in the near future, he can become what his father had not been; a smart and rational man who knows what he’s doing.)

“Son, why don’t you spend an hour outside?” He says in a kind voice. “Your sister loves playing outside, so why can’t you?”

“I don’t want to go out yet.” He doesn’t even look up from the book as he says that.

Weimar presses his lips into a thin line; he has had  _ enough _ of West’s blatant disrespect.

West cries as his father yanks the book out of his hands; he was not finished with his book yet! He has plenty of time to go outside, just let him finish the page!

“I have been patient with your insolence long enough, West.” His father grabs him by the arm and he flinches. He tries to shake out of his father’s grasp — it hurts, it hurts so much, why is he doing this — but his grip on West was as tight as a rope around one’s neck. He attempts to drag his feet across the floor to stop his father, but it was no use.

When he realises that he is outside, with the sun touching his pale skin, he starts to panic. He pushes his back against the door, and starts to shout German phrases at his father to please,  _ please _ let him back in.

But the door to heaven was locked.

He starts to cry, kneeling on the porch.

* * *

West plays with the toys that were present in the room (like East’s teddy bear, which she gave to him to wish him good luck) as Weimar paces back and forth, trying to calm his repressed anger.

Why was he here again?

Weimar turns to face him, expression stone cold. “West, what do you have to say for yourself?”

He blinks, still not looking up at his father, already intimidated by his voice. “ _ Was _ ?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, West— you  _ bit _ that child’s arm.”

Oh, that was why he was here.

“He kept touching me”, he mumbles softly, playing with the teddy bear.

“What was that? I can’t hear you.”

“He— He kept on touching me, okay? He didn’t listen to the signs I gave him that told him to stop doing it.”

“And was that a good reason to bite him?”

“It was the only way to tell him to get away from me.”

“You need to apologize to him and his family.”

He furrows his brows; it was not his fault that he had bit that child. “Why should I?”

“You  _ bit him _ !” He jumps at how loud his father was being, almost dropping East’s bear.

“He should apologize to me first!”

“Why would he? He never did anything to you!”

“He was the one who touched me repeatedly and without my permission.”

“You should be grateful that someone had wanted to be your friend!”

“I want to make friends by  _ myself _ , Papa, but they have to respect my boundaries first.”

Weimar glares at his son, who was deliberately avoiding eye contact again.

He sighs, “Fine.” He puts on his coat. “Fine! From now on, you are staying  _ inside _ , and you are not allowed to go outside ever again, you hear me?”

West only stares back at his father, and he takes that as a yes; he has had enough of his derisiveness.

* * *

“ _ Meine Tochter _ drew this”, he says proudly, smiling through that lie as everyone stares at the piece of paper with a mixture of judgement and raised eyebrows.

(West had drawn it, not East; she was more concerned with sports anyway.)

“I can tell that she has inherited your speciality”, the Netherlands says, studying it closely.

“Yes, as she is no better at drawing than you”, France replies, humoring herself.

Weimar glares at her, and she only smirks in victory.

“Calm down France”, Britain says, staring at the doodle, “she is but a child, of course her art would look like gibberish doodles.” His multi-colored eyes stare back at Weimar; to be honest, the man had always been intimidating. “What about your son, Weimar? How has he been doing lately?”

Ah, he had forgotten that news had spread fast— that Weimar had  _ bastard _ twins.

(Sometimes he can hear the other immortals ridiculing how his children had been born from a prostitute, out of wedlock.)

He blinks, smiling. “A son? Oh Britain, where have you heard that? I never had a son!”

Britain furrows his brows. “Prussia would never lie to me when he says you had twins.”

“ _ Bastards _ , as I’d like to call them”, his girlfriend speaks up, stifling a giggle.

“France, I do not condone foul language here!” Britain scolds her, before turning back to Weimar. “Where  _ is _ your son?”

“He’s dead.” That came out as too nonchalant, but it can’t be helped; he didn’t care much about West. “Spanish flu got him.”

Britain startles, before getting a hold of himself. “Ah, my condolences.”

France shrugs, indifferent. “Well, less Germans to worry about.”

“France!”

Might as well erase his son from history and the mouths of other people.

Yes, maybe he  _ is _ ashamed of his son.

But if other parents were in his place, they would feel the same way.

* * *

On West and East’s sixth birthday, Weimar stopped cooking the food that West usually likes, wanting to force him into eating the same thing as his sister does.

Weimar had also decided to start rationing their food to save money— and by that he meant he is not giving in to West’s abysmal food preferences anymore, no matter how much he whines and refuses to eat food.

He is supposed to be a good and obedient child.

“ _ Alles Gute zum Geburtstag Ost _ !” He says, placing a platter of cake in front of her; she claps wildly and joyfully, like a child would do. West, meanwhile, stares at the cake without any expression on his face. He nods towards his son’s direction. “ _ Und du auch, West _ .”

“Papa, where’s the chocolate?” He asks with a hint of disappointment.

East nods, “ _ Ja, ja _ , Papa, where is it?”

He sighs, “I’m sorry, my children, but I could not afford chocolate this year.”

His daughter lets out a disappointed sigh, while West’s expression looks more distressed than usual.

“B-But I like chocolate! What am I going to eat now? I-It’s the New Year’s, too!”

“Then you have to eat the cake I worked my ass off baking.”

“I-I don’t like cake!”

Weimar grits his teeth, “Then  _ tolerate _ it!”

“West, it’s alright, we’ll buy chocolate bars at a local shop later”, East replies.

“Sweetie, your brother is not allowed to go outside.”

“Okay! Then I’ll buy chocolate for him!”

West gives East a small smile, “ _ D-Danke, Ost _ .”

This was the first time Weimar has seen his son smile.

He feels hot jealousy.

Why can’t he smile at his father too?

* * *

West loves his father— well, how could he  _ not _ love the person who had raised him? He was a very caring father, despite their multitude of disagreements and arguments. He usually writes for his father (his drawing skills, unfortunately, aren’t as apparent and as good as his), mostly literary poems and short stories, and Weimar loved to show it off to the other immortals!

He may sometimes get frustrated at his father (especially when Weimar had forbade him to go outside after the biting incident), but his love for his father stays the same.

Even when he ignores him as he cries.

Even when he doesn’t directly praise his work.

Even when he doesn’t give him the same warmth or love as East.

He still loves him.

But that begs him of the question; what did he do wrong to be given cold glances?

* * *

Something is wrong with his father today.

He has been muttering under his breath for weeks end, and sometimes his beautiful emerald eyes would turn to a bloody red whenever he thought West was not looking.

It was… scaring him.

He and East share their concerning experiences about their father, and both decide that he was too dangerous and scary to be around them. This apprehension of their father had splintered their time together as well; East is always outside from day to night, and West is awake all night in the attic reading old and dusty books, while sleeping during the day.

Weimar did not care about their unusual habits.

In fact, even he stopped caring about his daughter’s wellbeing as well, preferring to spend his time in the library, or in some secluded spot in the woods.

West watches him from the attic, as he disappears into the streets, like he was one of the mortals blessed with a limited lifespan.

Then he focuses his attention back to books.

He loved books; novels, fiction, non-fiction, anything that can fill his head with knowledge.

(Since his father refused to enroll him in school, unlike East.

Well, it is much better being alone in a quiet house all night.)

He is not good at socializing, nor talking— but he is good at reading too much into the pages he is reading, and can remember a thousand words.

(East gave him a moniker for it— ‘ _ Das Glossar _ ’.)

The world of books is much better than the real life world and its people anyway.

He gets to interact with these characters intimately; find understanding in their character, get irritated and sad at their faults, and is positively elated by their personalities.

He opens the dusty old chest in the attic to read more books, as he had read almost everything in the bookshelves already.

Then something inside the chest catches his sea-blue eyes’ attention.

An old book with worn covers; it was covered with dust, but it did not look as old as all the books in the bookshelves were.

He picks it up, blowing the dust off it.

Then he opens the book.

… It was not a book.

It was a diary; a diary that belonged to the Deutsches Reich— German Empire.

His late grandfather.

He had heard stories about his grandfather; about how he had been a fearless, strong, and level-headed military leader, and how he had thrown everything away once he lost the war like a man.

Weimar, however, had a different perspective of his father; he was an arse, a cruel man who was spoiled too much by his father, and had only married his mother out of obligation. He was the person who had crushed his dreams, Weimar states, and he is the reason why they are in a knot of troubles now.

And many had told West that he had an uncanny resemblance to his grandfather— and frankly, he was tired of hearing that comment, as Weimar would always glare at him whenever someone says that.

Like it was his fault that genetics were cruel to him.

He squints at the penmanship; not because his grandfather’s writing is  _ horrendous _ , no, it’s because as he grows older, his eyesight becomes terrible as time goes by. He has reported feeling dizzy or his sight blurring whenever he is reading something.

The cons of being an avid reader, he supposes.

He rocks back and forth, an unconscious behavior of his whenever he starts to read something.

West blinks— he is about to dive into the world of his late grandfather. Would it be appropriate for him to be reading something as private as a diary?

He shrugs off-handedly, before turning the page.

Well, the person who owns the diary is dead, so why bother with basic human decency?

So he decides to weave himself into the Deutsches Reich’s world back then.

“ _ October 4, 1888, _

_ I met this woman today; she was beautiful, with auburn hair and emerald green eyes. She had a love for the arts that I could not comprehend... _ ”

* * *

He is afraid.

Since when had he been this afraid?

Papa… papa is not acting himself lately.

He hides in his room; he’s so scared.

He bites his lip, pulling strands of his hair and repeating words and phrases that are supposed to calm him down.

(East taught him a lot of phrases to use whenever he is distressed.)

He clenches his eyes shut— he did not want to be a target of Papa today.

Or  _ whoever _ that man wearing his Papa’s body is.

He knows that it is not Weimar— how can he be the father who he had grown up with when his entire personality is different?

He rocks back and forth, still muttering calming words and phrases.

His ears pick up the sound of someone setting their feet in his room, walking a few steps forward—

Then the door to the wardrobe opens, and he only stares at the shell of the man he used to call father.

The stranger shakes his head in disappointment, “I thought you would start screaming like a young child, rather than staring at me with apprehension.”

He screams as he drags him from his hiding place by the shirt.

His heart was beating fast, and it was getting harder for him to breathe.

He clenches his teeth as he starts to cry.

All of the words that he had been spewing from his mouth became gibberish at this point.

* * *

The Third Reich is in front of him, pacing back and forth relentlessly as he screams slurs and insults under his breath. West, meanwhile, keeps his head low, awaiting the punishment that is waiting for him. He can feel his sister’s presence beside him, keeping him company, but he wanted to be alone, away from any other eye other than Third Reich’s.

(He doesn’t even  _ want _ to call him father; he does not radiate the love Weimar had for him.)

“West, tell me—” There was a certain edge in his voice, a warning tone, “was it worth it?”

He clutches his fractured arm; he had punched that bully for trying to kiss East on the lips.

He deserved  _ more _ than a punch.

“You’re not concerned over the fact he tried to kiss my sister?”  _ ‘Your daughter’ _ sounds formal, non-familial; and the only person who is not family here is the man in front of them.

“But it is her duty to have Aryan children, is it not?”

“She clearly did not like it.”

“Whether she liked it or not is not an option— and who are you to decide behalf of your sister’s feelings on the matter? She hasn’t even spoken yet.”

West looks back at East, whose face looked uncertain to follow. He  _ knows _ she had been uncomfortable when that man started making flirtations towards her, but why is she being so uncertain  _ now _ ?

Then she looks up to Reich, “I… I was quite surprised, but I would not mind a simple kiss on the cheek.”

West stares at her, and Reich smiles.

“See? She is fine with boys swarming over her.” He clicks his tongue, “West, I have to make a confession— if it weren’t for your sister’s blind love for you, I would’ve killed you.”

East stares up at the Third Reich in horror, while West looks down at his arm, encased on a cast.

They are like that too— prisoners of their own home, with no way back.

He knows what he had just said.

And if he is being perfectly honest: he  _ does _ want to die.

* * *

He is trapped beneath an asylum now.

He doesn’t understand why— asylums are meant for  _ crazy people _ .

Last he checked, he is not one of those.

Did he ever act like a crazy person?

West recounts all of the times where he had bitten, punched, or neglected socialization.

He acted rationally,  _ intelligently _ .

He is  _ not _ a crazy person.

West can feel his breath picking up; he did not want to be in a small place in a long time, and his arms and legs were hurting, beyond tolerance even.

He is trembling, and he holds himself together, trying not to cry or scream.

Help will be out there, any second—

Someone opens the doors to his room, and he immediately jumps up, looking at the entrance only to find Austria, who was holding a bag.

This was actually the first time he has seen his distant relative; he recalls a few mentions of Austria by his father, and that he was a respectable and honorable man.

Perhaps he can trust him.

“ _ Ur-Ur-Großvater Österreich! _ ” He cries out, “Are you here to get me out? My arms and legs hurt because of the men who dragged me here!”

He does not reply, but he puts his bag down, and closes the door.

West immediately goes silent; the door closing means that whatever is happening right now is  _ not going to be good _ .

His distant relative sighs, holding out a syringe.

He immediately cowers at the sight of it, his body trembling.

“ _ Es tut mir Leid _ , West”, he says, approaching him, “ _ aber du musst geheilt werden _ .”

This was the first time he had screamed so loud.

The next day, he was chained to the walls like an animal, as Austria continues to — reluctantly — work on a cure for whatever has been gnawing at his mind.

(He’s  _ still _ not a crazy person.)

* * *

“You like these sort of books,  _ ja _ ?” His great-grandfather Prussia’s voice was always a form of solace and relief to him, but it is mostly because of the books that he sneaks into his room is the reason why he is so fond of him.

“I like all kinds of books”, he says between wheezes and short breaths, trying to retrieve his breaths sentence after sentence. Austria’s search for a cure had done a number on him, and he had grown weaker over the years. “But I like books where they teach you things about the world. Like, the world before I was born.”

He raises a brow; Prussia is always so patient with him, unlike ruthless Austria. “Oh? Do you mean history books?”

West lets out a few short nods; his neck hurts, and so does everything in his body, really.

Prussia laughs proudly, “Well, it seems that you are in luck— I brought you a book all about the history of the world.”

West flaps his arms excitedly, as Prussia gives him the book. Their routine is always like this; Prussia opens the doors and gives him a book — accompanied by a conversation starter (but West never takes the bait) — and as he reads Prussia updates him on the outside world, mostly about his sister. When their time is up and West is not done reading the book, he would bookmark the page he was on by folding it and saying goodbye to Prussia.

His great-grandfather, with all his faults (faults he knew because he had  _ also _ read his diary), seemed to be redeeming himself as he talked to him.

West frowns as he opens the book to the first page— what is this language and why can’t he read it? “ _ Preußen _ , I can’t understand a word in this book.”

“ _ Was _ ? Oh, give me that.” Prussia takes the book back in his hands, before groaning exasperatedly, “My apologies, West, it seems I have brought a book written in  _ Englisch _ .”

For all of West’s strengths in the literary world, one of his many weaknesses is the fact that he can only read, write, and speak in German.

(He also cannot empathize with characters, and have to end up rereading chapters and parts with them to better understand them.)

West tilts his head, then immediately regrets it as his neck reminds him how much his body is in pain. “ _ Englisch _ ? The language of the Third Reich’s enemies?”

“Well, yes, if you consider  _ languages _ as an enemy.”

The door opens, and West’s blood runs cold as Austria enters the room. His red eyes pierce through Prussia’s darker eyes, carrying his bag.

And West suddenly remembers that the world is cruel.

“ _ Preußen _ , your time with West is up”, he says sternly, and Prussia gets up only to glare at his family at full height.

“Do you always have to barge in on us like that?” Prussia demands, putting the book back in his coat. “It is considered rude, you know.”

“Why do you always have to visit West before I come here?”

“The boy needs assistance; he won’t find that in  _ you _ .”

“I don’t need to— the only thing I’m here for is to find a cure for him. What about you,  _ Preußen _ , why do you keep visiting West?”

West didn’t  _ need _ to be cured— the hunt for the cure has done more harm than good. He picks at his scabs, the result of sharp objects raining down on him for many years.

Prussia scoffs, crossing his arms. “I do not need a reason.”

“Is it because he looked a lot like your son in his younger years?”

Prussia’s composed facade immediately fades, and West stares at the two of them in confusion.

Austria raises a brow, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

The white-haired man spits on him, who was unfazed, as he walks out of the room while intentionally bumping on Austria’s shoulder.

Austria sighs, wiping Prussia’s spit away, before turning back to West, who was cowering, back pressed to the wall. He takes out the syringe, fixing his glasses as he approaches him. “Don’t be afraid,  _ Westen _ , this will all be over when I find the cure to your illness.”

_ That’s a lie _ .

He cannot move; the entirety of his body hurts and his arms and feets are in chains, burning him whenever he moves one of them. Like they were made of molten metal, used to kill and torture him slowly until he becomes the ‘ _ normal _ ’ child that he is supposed to be.

The needle of the syringe pricks his skin, and he immediately feels sleepy— he does not flinch or cry in pain like he used to.

He embraces the darkness like an old friend.

He wishes he is dead now.

* * *

Prussia gives him another book, as West plays with his soft blanket (the only toy in this room). He stares at the book, before opening it to the front page. He raises a brow and looks up at his great-grandfather. “This is  _ Onkel Ӧsterreich’s _ journal!”

He shrugs off-handedly, “You know, as payback for being an arse to you for a decade.”

West blinks,  _ It’s been a decade since he was thrown here _ ? That must mean that he is an adult now!

He looks at his body; he doesn’t look or even  _ feel _ like an adult.

The young man flips from page-to-page, before giggling. “Are you sure the both of us will not be in big trouble if I read this?”

“Come on, rid yourself of feeling sorry for that man!” Prussia says with a weak laugh. “That man has made you suffer the past decade! It is only fair you read the dozen tales he wrote while he was crying.”

“ _ Ja _ , it is only right. And I do not feel like I have invaded his privacy, since I have invaded your and your late son’s privacy by reading both of your journals too.”

Prussia blinks, “ _ Was _ ?”

“ _ Was _ ?”

* * *

He feels like he is drowning; sometimes he manages to ascend from the waters in the back of his mind, and sometimes he lets himself submerge, wanting  _ Das Meerwunder _ to devour his tiny body quickly.

He can hear the sound of footsteps above— the sound of soldiers running into the battle, leaving him alone in this miserable building, along with the unfortunate hooligans who howl at night.

He wishes that East is not among them.

And the ground he is seated on shakes, bombs being bombarded towards them, or tanks driving over him.

He tunes them out, stuck in his make-believe world, picking at his scabs and wounds that would not bother healing.

The end is near.

* * *

Prussia stopped coming, and Austria’s experiments on him have ceased.

(One gives him a high rise of anxiety, while the other gives him relief.)

The ground shakes even more like there is an earthquake present.

The rubble on the ceiling is raining down on him.

He prays to the continents that the ceiling will just crash onto him, and his life will be no more.

Then on the next day… all was quiet.

The end is here.

* * *

Unfortunately, the ceiling did not collapse onto him.

But he hears other sounds.

His ears perk up, but he continues on reading his book (Prussia did not come back to take it with him), as footsteps echo in this dreary, lonesome building.

Everyone forgot that he existed.

(Did Prussia forget about him too?)

He hears the door to his room open, but he didn’t want anyone to interrupt his reading time; he is at the climax, the part that  _ matters _ .

The wind from the door makes a few sheets of papers that he had stuck to the wall sweep, and it tickles his skin.

He knows that a man and a woman have come to fetch him (because of their voices resonating throughout the room), but he did not know what they were trying to say.

He hears his name in that strange tongue of the woman’s (a beautiful woman’s, at that), and he looks up and babbles incomprehensible German; the man could not understand a word he had just said, and immediately asks him something in his tongue— is he speaking in  _ Englisch _ ?

He cannot understand the new world he was thrown into.

He is feeling restless by now, especially when these two start approaching him.

And, thank the gods, the woman starts to speak in German.

(Well, her pronunciations can use a little work, and her accent makes it harder for him to understand a few words, but he is smart and can work his way through that.)

Then she says he is under arrest?

He blinks,  _ What _ ?

For what?

What did he even do?

He did not even know who these people are!

_ What about Prussia _ ? He asks the woman, and she returns with a harsh reply that he is  _ dead _ .

Everything stops.

He did not have the time to mourn.

The person who understood him the most was  _ dead _ .

He starts to cry after the man leaves the building, and he does not cease when the woman starts berating him for it.

Everything hurts.

* * *

He still can’t understand English, no matter how much he is forced to read German-to-English dictionaries (courtesy of a woman called the United States of America, who complains about how he cannot decipher what he is saying), because he could not find the heart to read too much into it.

But he  _ can _ understand a few basic words, just not those highly advanced ones.

He has an interrogation right now; he would be in the courtroom standing trial like his other relatives, but for some reason they chose to keep them separated.

(He met again with East, who looked like she had seen the dangers of the war— they both hugged and broke down, his sister apologizing to him for neglecting him, and her brother whispering many soothing things in both of their ears.

That is, until a burly man — his name is the Soviet Union, West remembers — drags East away from him.)

The person about to question him is the United States; she seemed to be stern and cold towards him — and the other German members of the family tree — but she has a warm reception towards the people she considers as friends.

He missed warm receptions towards him; all he got when he had come to this place were cold glares.

Well, maybe he should start getting used to it— it will not be stopping any time soon.

“West Germany, right?” She says boredly, picking at the papers. “I  _ would _ be asking if you’re crazy or not, ‘cause you were in an asylum, but I have to stick to the papers.”

He only blinks in response.

“Cat got your tongue?”

He just grips on his clothes, not understanding why a cat would get his tongue.

She rolls her eyes, “It’s an expression.” She sorts through the papers, before humming as she finds the right one. “Let’s start with the standard questions first: How old are you?”

He counts his age using his fingers, then he gives up. “... Don’t know.”

“Are you pulling my leg right now?”

He shakes his head, raising his arms. “Not pulling your leg, my hands are up here!”

“For fuck’s sake kid, it was just an expression!”

He covers his ears for a split second, before dropping his arms once the threat is done. “... Oh.  _ Es tut mir Leid _ .”

“So… you seriously have no clue at how old you are?”

“Lost count at twelve— when thrown into asylum.”

“How long have you been in there?”

“... Don’t know too.”

“Give me a  _ date _ , boy! And not  _ that kind _ !” She shouts indignantly.

He covers his ears again, trying to remember how long it has been since he was in his small and quiet house, away from murderous father figures and mad doctors ruining his life. “Nineteen… nineteen… thirty-three?”

She glares at him, and he avoids eye contact with her, preferring to play with his clothing. “Finally, a concrete answer.” She writes something in her notepad. “So, you’ve been stuck in that asylum for twelve years, eh?”

“ _ Ja _ ?” Twelve years of his life stripped away, gone to the winds.

He only lived for the experiments.

His youth was wasted, and there is no turning back to the past now.

They continue with the interrogation, but his mind and heart does not give its best when giving answers, only choosing to reply in the vaguest way possible.

(But she seems to accept these vague answers.)

* * *

He is placed in a small apartment in his half of Berlin (East took the other half), under probation by the other immortals.

Well, at least he can still have a quiet and private life,  _ alone _ .

The cold glares and cruel words from the other immortals have been overwhelming him a lot, to the point he did not want to go outside that much.

Why would he, when his world is still in shambles, and everyone else on this planet hates him?

He’s heard the suspicious whispers that he was a crazy man, and the other immortals distance themselves from him just because he was stuck in an asylum for over a decade.

What was so scary about him anyway?

His hate for the Third Reich amplifies, to the point that he cannot even look at one of the Nazi’s swastikas without breaking down.

At least he can read his books in peace, and even write in this peace and quiet, away from the world.

His body can still feel the scars and pain that Austria and Reich inflicted on him, which is strange; the pain should have been long gone by now, but it returns with a vengeance, and he collapses on the floor with a shout.

Like it had been made from the memories in his mind, reminding him that not only does he have physical scars, he had scars  _ inside _ of him.

He is having trouble breathing again, and his ears ring.

His ribcage feels like it is pounded by fists again and again, and voices keep on lingering in his head.

_ You killed us _ .

West starts to cry, as these voices keep on echoing.

It was  _ his _ fault.

* * *

He had a nightmare this new year’s eve.

(He doesn’t celebrate his birthdays anymore; well, why  _ would _ he celebrate the day he was born as a bastard, a mistake?

Besides, he’s lost count of his age, as the numbers blur into a thin line.)

He was in the murky water, swimming for his life, paddling and paddling, not seeing any stretch of land anywhere.

Then the cloudless sky starts to darken, but not the beautiful kind, where the day makes way for the night; the kind where everything goes pitch black.

West swims even faster, but he cannot see a thing anymore.

Then voices started to swirl in the winds, enough to make him stop.

“ _ It’s you, the murderer _ !”

“ _ You killed us all _ !”

“ _ You should’ve died along with your father _ !”

He gasps a little, but he continues on swimming aimlessly, trying to get rid of the voices.

But it was no use; they were like the echos deep in a cave, trying to lure you in with curiosity as their claws ready themselves with hacking their new victim into pieces.

Then he feels something in the water.

The water starts to rise, higher and higher, comparable to a tower in front of him. He is too frozen to turn back, and all he could do is watch as the murky dark water rose higher.

Then he realises that it is turning into a person right in front of him.

He watches in horror as a single red eye glows to look down on him.

The water-made figure smiles, dripping.

“ _ I see you,  _ **_mein kleiner Mond_ ** .” It says in a demonic voice, making his ears ring.

And he is immediately caught up in a storm of syringes and needles, trying to tear him apart.

* * *

West is meeting Austria today this time.

He would complain about how his routine is abruptly cut short, but he had no right to protest when everyone is still looking at him with a poisonous glare.

To be honest, he didn’t  _ want _ to meet up with someone who had toyed with him like a ragdoll and hurt him many times.

He was afraid of him, there is no denying it.

He didn’t care if his distant relative had been following direct orders; just his name is enough to make him tremble.

When the door opens and someone lets Austria in the same room as him, West immediately rocks back and forth in his chair, pulling at his golden hair. He was going to bring a book with him, but the people around him do not understand how books make him relax and refuse to let him bring a book.

So yes, he  _ is _ alone with Austria.

He doesn’t look up when he sits down; they can talk, he just won’t look at him.

“ _ Guten Morgen _ , West”, Austria says, wringing his hands together. Even when he is not looking at him, he can feel his eyes on him.

“ _ G-Guten Morgen _ .” He replies back, toying with the armrests.

“How have you been? Have they been treating you alright?”

“I am alright by a huge margin.” He fixates his attention on his cup of water, staring at the contents of the clear liquid below it. He feels himself relax, his tone growing colder. “They treat me like  _ I _ was the war criminal, but that’s alright. What about you?”

“I’m not allowed to leave my house for an extended period of time without an escort, and I usually have to be checked for weapons. Did they do that to you?” His tone was… surprisingly full of worry and care, which catches him off guard.

“Not really, but they put cameras over my place. You know, like what  _ you _ did in my room.” He finally has the courage to look up at Austria, whose dark red eyes were staring at the floors.

“Ah… I see that you are adjusting fairly quickly to your new world.”

“Because you didn’t give me time to adjust in the asylum.” He digs his nails into his skin; he is aware that they are being watched (he wished that they have  _ actual _ privacy, but this is the least they could get), but he doesn’t care anymore.

All he remembers about Austria is that he is the man who had hurt him to the brink of death, the person that kept on harming him just to find a cure, the man who had tried to  _ drill _ into his brain (Prussia had dissuaded him from doing that) just so he can figure out what’s wrong with him.

Now, West knew that there  _ was _ something different about himself now.

But did he deserve to have his childhood stolen because of that?

He deserved  _ something _ happening to him; it was his fault for being born with it in the first place.

But he is not supposed to pay with pain.

Austria sighs slowly, fixing his glasses. “West, I have something to tell you.”

“No, don’t want to hear it.”

“West… I know I hurt you to the brink of death, and I just want to say—”

“I  _ know _ what your intent is when you started looking at me with that conscience-stricken face.” His voice is firm now, as he had enough with talking to someone he used to call family. “Do you think that a three-worded apology can erase everything you did to me? Everything you did to hurt me?”

“I am aware that what I did to you was wrong— but I have no choice, as the Third Reich wanted me to find a cure for whatever ailment you were born with—”

“ _ Stop _ saying his name”, he seethes, “I’ve heard it countless times in other people’s mouths when they are talking about me. I’m  _ not _ his son, and I do not want to be like the person who ruined my sister’s life.”

(He hasn’t seen East ever since they divided Germany in half.)

“Do you think that he ruined your life?” Austria asks, his eyes shining oddly.

“E-Excuse me?”

“Did the Third Reich ruin your life?”

He looks back at his hands— his scab-covered and scarred hands. He even broke a fingernail or two just from biting them too hard. “When the Third Reich came, he destroyed all the childlike innocence I had, especially my happiness. He only stole my childhood from me, but I ruined my own life in the first place by being born.”

“It wasn’t— it wasn’t your fault for being born with the disorder”, he says, “you didn’t ruin your life; your father did.”

His body shakes due to seething rage. “T-Third Reich is not my father.”

“I wasn’t talking about him; I was talking about Weimar.” He shakes his head, sighing. “I never meant to cause you any harm, believe me.”

“How can you say that to me when all you’ve done is hurt me? And what do you mean by Weimar ruining my life?”

“Did you ever wonder why people had no idea you existed? Did you ever wonder  _ how _ you were brought out from the asylum?”

“M-My father loved me!”

Austria shakes his head, desolate. “He never did.”

He starts to toy with his clothes again, breaking eye contact with Austria due to sheer anxiety. “D-Don’t say anything like that! H-He loved me.”

“He told the others you were dead.”

“He would never! He’s lying!”

“Why do you think you were never allowed to go outside again? Didn’t you yearn for the outside every once in a while?”

“I did yearn, but that isn’t important.”

“Just think for a moment; if Weimar ever loved you, would he have kept you in his house and lied to others about your existence?”

“Stop it… you’re no better...”

“I know I am not any better, but as someone who has watched Weimar for years, I  _ had _ to say it. West, you are a very hardworking and intelligent man, but sometimes… sometimes we have to face the truth.”

West lets a tear trickle out of his eye. “You know,  _ Ӧsterreich _ , I shouldn’t be listening to someone who hurt me. But I can’t believe that I’m already believing in everything you say.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you; I truly am.”

“What’s done is done; I don’t even want to see you today. I only came here because Britain persuaded me to go.” He stands, trying to keep his composure, sending Austria a rather dark glare, “Besides, I don’t forgive you, and you have no power nor authority over me anymore.”

West leaves the room he shared with Austria— the air inside it is nauseous, anyway.

When he enters his home, he starts to break down, his mind replaying the memories where in which he thought that his father had been the kindest to him.

* * *

The Netherlands has been grinding his gears lately.

For some unknown reason, the man had developed a keen interest in him and — if his assumption is correct — assumes that the two are close to each other already.

If he is asked whether or not he and Netherlands were friends, he would reply with a strict and firm ‘no’.

He’s irritating, honestly; can’t respect his personal space, touches him  _ without _ his permission, doesn’t understand the word ‘no’... that kind of thing.

He’s playing a joke on him— he has to be.

West has had enough when he was dragged into the cafeteria (even after he’s said that he’ll have lunch at a later date since he was  _ not hungry yet _ ) by the  _ arm _ without permission. The Netherlands babbles in incomprehensible Dutch as they make it to the table housing his friends.

West Germany, of course, sits the furthest out of everyone, as to not attract attention. He immediately flips open his book to the page where he last left off when the Netherlands  _ dragged him here _ .

But unfortunately, even his mere presence is enough to attract attention.

France elbows the Netherlands with a scalding expression, “Why’d you bring Mister Depression over here? He’s already souring the mood!”

He chuckles light-heartedly, “Cool down,  _ Frankrijk _ , he still has not done much harm, and he is quite pleasant to be around with, anyway.”

“He hasn’t even been eating yet”, Belgium points out, staring at West who continues to read and take notes. “Dad, why did you have to bring him here?”

“Because he is an excellent company!” He replies in Dutch, “He’s quite entertaining once you get over his lonesome and somewhat ‘cold’ nature.”

“Eating with this guy on the table makes me feel like it is winter already”, Luxembourg replies, picking at his food. “Can you kick him out now?”

France glares at the Netherlands, “Either you kick him out or  _ I _ do.”

“Hey, cool off!” The Netherlands says, taking a bowl of porridge, “He just needs to eat, and he can go back to working in his cramped office.”

He scoots over towards West Germany, who was already being irritated and moody over the loss of his personal space.

“Hey, I noticed that you haven’t picked a meal to eat already”, he says in English with a kindly smile; West grips his pen tighter, trying not to poke holes into his paper. “You should eat now, ‘cause you can’t go to work hungry, you know?” He pushes the bowl right next to him, and now he could smell its putrid scent.

Porridge.

He doesn’t  _ eat _ porridge.

West is now beyond his limit.

Before the Netherlands opens his mouth, he is doused with hot porridge over himself.

Almost immediately, everyone turns to stare at the commotion.

West puts down the now-empty bowl, gathers his things, and immediately walks away from the table, eyes on the ground.

France dabs napkins all over her porridge-covered friend, clicking her tongue with a tone that might mean ‘I told you so’. “Rambunctious when you get to know him, eh? Sounds like a dreadful miscalculation on your part.”

Belgium immediately stands, his eyes on West, still moving like the wind. “Hey,  _ klootzak _ ! Are you going to apologize to my father?”

“Leave it be,  _ Belgique _ ”, Luxembourg replies, also glaring at West, “the Germans have passed down the need to be rude to one’s friend from generation to generation.”

Once he is back in his own office, away from the others, he leans on the wall, pulling at his hair.

… West immediately regretted that decision.

He  _ does _ want a friend.

He sighs, taking his glasses off.

Why did he have to be  _ so _ difficult?

* * *

“Miss Beaumont, your editor for your book will be Mister Müller; he will help you complete your manuscript at the given time slot”, his publisher drawls, bored with his life right now.

She scowls; she  _ had _ been thrilled by the idea of having an editor, but now that West is involved, she doesn’t feel excited about working with an editor. “I don’t  _ need _ an editor! I’ll be fine writing and editing my own book by myself!”

She has to put up with him due to the fact that Britain forced her to be more civil to West, but now her publisher is forcing the same person onto her?

“You  _ need _ an editor, Miss Beaumont, and Mister Müller is the only one who volunteered. I am well aware that you have been busy these days, so would it not be beneficial for your time to have an editor look at your script?”

France grits her teeth, before sighing. “Fine.” She looks up from her manuscript and into West’s eyes, staring at her listlessly.

(Honestly, he creeps her out by a wide margin.)

She nods, “Of course; I will enjoy working with you, Mister Müller.”

He nods wordlessly.

She bites back a snarky reply; he’s always been quite a standoffish and peculiar man. No wonder why everyone saw him as a cold and asocial person, especially after the Netherlands incident.

As they wait for the bus to come pick them up, she looks up at West, who has grown taller over the years.

(Her head now only reaches up to his shoulders; she hates being reminded that she is short.)

She hmphs, crossing her arms. “I bet you’re enjoying this.”

He replies with a confused hum.

* * *

“You know,  _ Allemagne _ .”

He grimaces a little, letting out a tired groan; small talk. It had been a good twenty minutes of quiet brainstorming and lunch; he shall bid farewell to that as he is dragged into a conversation.

France picks off the leftover crumbs from her plate, sorting through her manuscript. “I barely know about your life outside of what we got from you from the interrogation, and we all know someone like you would hide all the savory details. So… what was your home life like? Before the war, of course.”

His defensive instincts kick in, and he stops eating to glare at France. “That… that is  _ none _ of your business.”  _ Why would you need my story when we only need your book’s _ ?

She looks like a kicked puppy for a second, before giving him a tense smile. “Ah… I see; I guess we aren’t really close to be asking about personal subjects.”

“We aren’t.” He gives her a curt reply, to ensure the end of the subject.

However, it was not the end of the conversation. “What are you doing?”

“I like books, but I also want to write a book myself.”

She looks interested. “Ah, an aspiring novelist, hm? A word of advice, for someone who’s been working in the book industry for centuries: write what you know.”

“Ah, no wonder why the books you wrote that I read were so mediocre.”

She stops moving— did he say something wrong? “Excuse me?”

“Most of your romance stories — from your very first to recent — were all full of generic plots and characters; I am quite surprised that no one ever put two and two together that these different books were written by the same author when they were reading your novels. But I did think that your latest novel had a few shocking twists and surprises, but it somewhat has the same plot as the book before that; getting over an ex-lover. Word of advice: don’t reuse and recycle the story you have already written yourself; get out of your comfort zone every once in a while.”

She frowns, “Is that how you feel about my stories?”

He wipes the lenses of his glasses. “Your books are decent for the younger ages — such as tweens and teenagers — but I usually use it as a way to pass the time. Sometimes, I cannot even make sense of your story.”

She nods, losing her appetite. “I see. Thank you for your feedback.” She gathers her things, much to his confusion; they’re not supposed to be packing things up until the next hour or so. “Are you done eating?”

He nods, “ _ Ja _ ?”

She nods, “Good, we’ll meet again tomorrow.  _ Au revoir _ .”

“Wait, but we’re not supposed to be leaving until—”

“I think I have a sore throat”, she coughs, which sounds like she  _ faked _ it to him, “I need to go home and treat it. Have a safe trip back home.”

He watches her leave so abruptly.

He blinks, did he do something wrong? He was just being honest.

* * *

“Hey”, the Netherlands’ ears perk up at that familiar deep yet soft voice behind him. He turns his head and jumps backwards as he finds West staring at him with that cat-like glare.

He narrows his eyes at the man suspiciously; he still hasn’t apologized for the porridge incident. He sighs, “Here to apologize for the porridge incident?”

“I already apologized to you; besides I want to ask you something.”

He blinks; this man is outrageous! Why did he want to befriend him in the first place? He glares at West, “ _ Excuse me _ ? You  _ never _ apologized to me about how you doused me with porridge in front of everybody! I was completely  _ humiliated _ during the whole ordeal! And now you have the  _ audacity _ to ask me a question?”

West flinches, covering his ears using his hands. “You don’t  _ have _ to shout since I am within your earshot anyway. And where did you think that reservation for the new Dutch restaurant came from?”

The Netherlands lifts a finger to protest, before processing that information. “That was  _ you _ ?”

“Yes; that means I apologized.”

The Netherlands shakes his head in disbelief. “You have a unique way of apologizing— besides, didn’t that reservation cost a fortune? Even with my money I’m not able to get one of those.”

“I just find three-worded apologies insincere; so I eavesdropped on your conversation.”

“You eavesdropped on my— okay, what was your question again?”

“I believe I made France upset yesterday.”

The Netherlands clicks his tongue, feigning disappointment. “Oh, that is a  _ horrible _ idea; good thing Britain forced you two into a silent truce. You know, ever since that happened, she stopped being angry that you were still breathing—”

“Do you have any idea about what she likes recently?” He cuts off his musing; he’s only here for one goal only.

He thinks for a moment, “Well, France has a sweet tooth, and she’s been raving about this one book… yeah, that’s all I know. Unless you want to talk to Belgium or Luxembourg...”

“No thank you, those two have been colder than me ever since I dumped porridge on your head.”

“Can we  _ stop _ talking about the porridge incident now?”

“I hated porridge anyway.”

“You could’ve told me.”

West nods, “Thank you for your time,  _ Niederlande _ .” He tips his hat off to him, and he blinks in surprise. “We  _ have _ to spend time together sometime.”

The Netherlands stares at him, before smiling. “Sure, we can. Oh also, France loves apologies, so you have to say the magic word to her while giving her your apology gift!”

* * *

“ _ Guten Morgen _ ,  _ Frankreich _ .” He sits down, hiding the box of self-baked macarons underneath the table.

He furrows his brows, already regretting the decision to bake the sweets himself. Why did he have to teach himself how to bake for an apology? He tasted one of them, and immediately decided that any kind of sweet other than chocolate does not taste good.

He hopes that France would like them— or all that trouble learning how to make macarons will go down the drain.

West feels the book in his coat— he is going to apologize to France today.

She settles down in front of him, “ _ Bonjour _ ,  _ Allemagne _ . Shall we get started?” There was still this cold and hurt tone around her, and he somewhat feels bad for what he said.

He supposes that this is the right time to apologize. “Look, France, I think I took my criticisms too far yesterday.”

She furrows her brows, skimming over her manuscript. “I’m sure you have a reason.”

“Well… I’ve been— been thinking about how that wounded you on the inside, and—” He fumbles around his coat, before he produces the book that France had wanted, and also lifted up the box of macarons. “I bought the book you liked… and also made macarons.”

France looks up from her work, before staring at the book and pastry in front of them. She takes the book first, touching it like it was a handmade gem, eyes shining with surprise.

She stares at West, “Where did you get this? This is exactly the copy that I wanted!”

He looks up, surprised. “Really?”

France’s focus shifts onto the box of macarons, opening them. “You  _ baked _ these?”

He nods, holding his hands together and moving his fingers. “ _ Ja _ , I did not think it would be sincere enough if I only bought it from a bakery. However, don’t expect it to be scrumptious— I’ve never baked before, and I only tasted one before deciding it is like cake. It is not my cup of tea.”

“You hate pastries?” She asks, opening the box and taking one out, examining its features. “I’ve never heard of anyone who hates something sweet.”

“I like chocolate”, he replies, “pastries just don’t do it for me.”

“I see.” She puts one in her mouth, chewing on it. West silently prays that he has done good, and his eyes immediately shine with relief and excitement as France lets out a small hum of satisfaction. “Tastes like the macarons I bake every weekend. What I mean is—” She gulps, “It’s  _ so _ good.”

He stares at her for a moment, before he can feel a smile across his face. “ _ Danke _ , you can have it.”

France’s eyes widen in surprise; why did she look so surprised? She smiles, “Well, it  _ is _ your apology, right? Honestly, you didn’t have to go all the way to buy the book I had wanted.”

“I wanted to make this apology sincere.”

She chuckles, and for some reason, it was like music to his ears. “You seem to be the type of person to prefer wordless acts of kindness.”

“Yes, I do prefer it that way; if I’m being honest, I can never bring myself to utter apologies, so I have to do it my way.”

“I see.” She continues to munch on macarons, while she skims over her manuscript.

Back when he had first seen her, he had thought she was beautiful— except he cannot point out  _ why _ he had thought of it that way.

But now, while her figure is basking in the sunlight, he can see what made her so beautiful.

* * *

France started to slowly — but surely — become a presence in West’s small but strenuous life. She inserts herself into small corners like she was a shadow solidifying into a human; gone were the days when she had antagonized and taunted him, and they were replaced by more formal and civil encounters, until it’s become a camaraderie in leisure time.

He finds himself falling more and more in love with her; he cannot control this sensation.

No matter how many times he has to remind himself that they were only friends (he doubts that they would stretch beyond that, anyway), his mind still keeps thinking about her, and his heart beats louder, with butterflies in his stomach fluttering in every direction.

It’s becoming quite hard to maintain a straight face whenever she is around him— just the whisper of her name is enough to make him perk up with attentiveness, or the smile she sends towards his direction is sufficient to fluster him to the point he is red. Even when she goes out of her way to say something kind to him, it was sufficient to make his arms flap with joy.

(The Netherlands teases his new and profound feelings, saying that he becomes red as a tomato whenever she is right beside him.

He did not even know  _ how _ the Dutch knew of his dilemma.)

She was an enigma— a man like he is not suited for a woman like she.

Maybe he should get over this baseless crush; France has more experience and standards. She’d never settle for someone who barely has any experience.

Besides, the only thing he had experienced was hurt, and he didn’t want to burden France with his problems.

And he’d be a boulder that France would have to pull, and he didn’t want that for her.

* * *

“You  _ like _ someone, don’t you?” The United States says with that know-it-all grin of hers.

France groans, pushing her friend’s face away from hers. “If I started liking someone already, I would have told you already.”

She snickers, “You didn’t tell me that you still like Britain until  _ after _ you confessed to him! So tell me:  _ who is it _ ?!” She says those last three words while shaking France back-and-forth.

“Calm down, lass”, France says, “I don’t know where you got the concept of me liking another man.”

“You started wearing make-up a few weeks back.”

“I only did it for myself.”

(And it was true— she decided her face looked dull one morning and decided to freshen it up a little. Of course, America would deny the validity of that statement.)

“Oh please, you ain’t fooling me with a lie like that”, she says, “what about the times where you were talking over the phone with someone, and your voice was higher than normal?”

She stops, her cheeks turning pink, “You  _ noticed _ that?! You’re such a creep!”

“Ha!” Her friend laughs gleefully. “You  _ are _ into someone! Who?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Fine, I guess I’ll play the guessing game with you, then.” She taps her chin, deep in thought, before her eyes light up. “Britain?”

“What? No, and besides, they already have their eyes set on someone else.”

“Still some sore wounds left in that one, I guess. Netherlands?”

“I definitely learned from Britain to  _ never _ get back together with my exes.”

“... West Germany?”

She raises a brow, slightly surprised, before laughing. “You think I have a crush on  _ him _ ?”

“You started getting way closer to West, don’t you  _ dare _ deny it.”

“F-For business!” She replies, lying through her teeth; she had made sure that all those friendly outings with West were discreet. “Besides, Britain forced us to be allies after the war.”

Her mischievous grin just grows wider, before it morphs into surprise. “West Germany? I thought I gave you a vacation!”

France’s face is now red as a tomato— just the thought of West here, with her, was enough to make her flustered. She turns her head around like lightning;

There was no one there.

Oops.

America starts to holler, and she would have chastised her for the unladylike behavior— but she is dumbstruck. “You got it  _ bad _ .”

* * *

West purchased a French-to-German dictionary today.

Yes, he’s got it bad.

He decided to learn more of France’s language to pass the time, since he was granted a vacation by the United States.

(Well, she had  _ cajoled _ him into a vacation, since he stubbornly refuses to get one.)

He had a reason for not taking vacations; if he is not busy and his mind empty, his thoughts will be a mess of Austria, the Third Reich, Weimar, and his sister, who had chosen to stop talking to him from behind the Iron Curtain.

Those kinds of thoughts made him feel sick and moody, so he finds solace in work and social interactions that  _ he _ got to schedule himself.

(By that, he meant timed interactions with both the Netherlands and France— they were his only friends at the moment, as the rest of Europe still regard him with suspicion.)

West hums a soft tune as he turns the page, trying to absorb the words and their meanings; he wants to impress France.

For what?

He didn’t know why he should be impressing her; it was just a language.

The blond-haired man groans, putting his head on the dictionary.

(By evening, he has memorized countless greetings and phrases that he is supposed to say when he travels to France’s namesake.

Especially the word, ‘I love you’.

(He didn’t know  _ why _ he would be needing this, when he cannot even bring himself to look at his reflection in the mirror.))

* * *

“How about y’all invite West Germany for a change?” France asks Belgium and Luxembourg, who were brainstorming on who to invite in this New Year’s gathering.

Belgium looks at his mother like she was crazy, “That man’s bad news; he’ll be bringing painful memories for everyone just by  _ being _ there! Mom, I thought you would never forget the crimes the Third Reich committed.”

“I still remember them, but I’ve been noticin’ how unfairly you people have been treating West.”

“Mom… I just don’t want to be reminded of the war when I look at him. Don’t you remember what the Third Reich did to Vichy?”

She remembers them all; memories she wants to cut apart, memories that shouldn’t keep resurfacing. “Yes, and those memories  _ stung _ .”

They still do.

She stays silent as they all decide not to invite West.

How could she think that she was right for him when she cannot bring herself to defend him?

A coward, from beginning to end.

* * *

She decides that if West is not invited to the party, then she’ll just have to bring the party over to his apartment.

His apartment was… decent, but not as decent as hers. The walls were pure white, with bookcases surrounding the living room, a Germanic-patterned carpet on the floor, and on top of it a coffee table and sofas touching the walls. She stares at the massive bookcases, wondering if he had a favorite genre like her.

West has no idea as to  _ why _ France was here in his apartment, but… it was not an  _ unwelcome _ visit, although rather unexpected.

He leans over the counter, inhaling and exhaling, trying to reduce the heat trapped in his face. He needs to cool down— she is just paying him a visit, nothing more and nothing less.

_ Keep your feelings at bay when you are around her _ .

“She might think that you’re a strange man if you keep stuttering around her”, he lectures himself, before calming himself down. “Get your act together, West.”

He comes back to his living room to find France staring at the books on his bookshelves with awe. When she senses his presence, she turns to face him and gives West a small smile— and an abundance of butterflies were fluttering inside of his stomach. She gives off a fluttering feeling, that woman. “I didn’t know you had so many books.”

“A few of them were my old books back in my childhood”, he states, touching the worn and decaying covers wrapped in plastic. “I usually read to pass the time.”

“Judging by the multiple books hanging around your apartment, you pass the time a  _ lot _ .”

“I suppose so.” He shrugs, “I haven’t gotten to read much ever since I started working, but it’s more like books stopped being interesting for me. Can’t even get through a page because all I think about is work.”

France stares at him, before crossing her arms. “That ain’t healthy, overworking yourself to death.”

He turns away, “It keeps my deepest and darkest thoughts at bay; I choose the rational way by working hard.”

“Have you  _ seen _ yourself in the mirror? Your eyes have dark circles beneath them.”

“It’s—” He yawns tiredly, after pulling an all-nighter last night, “It’s alright, I do not mind staying up late to finish my workload.”

“I’m suddenly starting to agree with America that giving you a vacation was a good idea.”

“I thought it was a bad idea. She made me waste my days.”

“Were you resting when you were on vacation?”

“I did, I bought a dictionary to help me practice… but it still doesn’t change the fact I have nightmares every night when I close my eyes.” He fiddles with his clothing— France notices that he does that whenever he is desolate or lonely. “I just… I just have a hard time sleeping, is all.”

Her face morphs into pity. “I’m not sure if this is appropriate to say, but I think you should seek help for that.”

He shakes his head, one of his hands pulling at his hair. “No, I don’t— I don’t need that.” He sighs, “I want to ask you: what are you doing here?”

“Oh, the others decided that you were too ‘depressing’ to be invited to the New Year’s Eve party, so I took matters in my hands and brought wine and pizza for you.” She smiles, nodding to the bottles of wine and the box of pizza on his coffee table.

He stares at the box of pizza, “I don’t eat pizza.”

France’s cheeks turn pink in embarrassment (which was adorable), “Oh, I see, I’m so sorry—”

“I apologize, I don’t really like greasy foods either so I don’t eat anything like that. I’m sorry for wasting your time with my pickiness.”

“It’s okay. I was the one who barged in your apartment in the first place.”

“No that’s— that’s alright. It is a little unprecedented, but I do not mind sharing space with you.” He takes a seat on his sofa, before opening one of the bottles of wine. “So… let’s drink on it? I have more alcohol in my cupboards, anyway.”

She smirks, “You’re an avid drinker as well, eh?”

“Helps me sleep at night whenever I am not able to.”

* * *

He did not know  _ how _ they ended up from drinking in his living room to contemplating their lives at the top of the apartment building.

They were  _ slightly _ tipsy, but not drunk enough to stupidly think that if they jump from this building they will start flying before hitting the ground.

(He had walked up here a few dozen times, trying to think if he had jumped right there, would everyone mourn or celebrate his death?

In the end, he was a coward since he stepped back from the ledge and continued to drink in the comfort of his home.)

“Aren’t the stars beautiful this time of evening?” France whispers breathlessly, “If only we could reach them.”

“With your hands, physically? No, they are made of hydrogen and light; you cannot hold onto a star because they are also far away from you.”

She chuckles, “Oh,  _ Allemagne _ , you are so cute.”

He tilts his head to the side, “I don’t think I am qualified to be cute.”

She sighs, “You already are just by being yourself, you know?”

“People say that whenever I’m being myself I bring depression onto them.”

“Well, that’s a brainless assumption from them.” She sighs, sitting on the ledge, her skirt billowing softly in the wind.

He cannot hear the soft traffic from below, his ears and eyes rested upon France, looking so graceful and serene.

God, he cannot suppress his feelings for her; his emotions are like a volcano, waiting to erupt at the right time.

She smiles at him, the moonlight illuminating her face. “You make me smile whenever you keep me company.”

He furrows his brows, taken aback and surprised. “I do?”

“Every time.” She sighs, her short dark brown hair flowing. “Just like all the things that make me happy, you make me feel that way too.”

“Well, if we’re being honest… you make me feel giddy and excited as well.”

She stares at him, “For real?”

He nods, blushing. “For real.”

He stares at his wristwatch; 11:59.

A minute before midnight— a minute before the day he had been born in this world.

He wasn’t supposed to be celebrating… but maybe he can celebrate for France’s sake.

West opens his mouth, wanting to tell France that once the clock rings midnight, the world turns older and he also becomes older.

But she opens her mouth at the same time, opening with another sigh against the cold night air. “Do you believe in love?”

“There are many other forms of love rather than romanticization. I feel like familial or platonic love are not talked about as much.”  _ I do not trust that word _ .

“But do you believe in it?”

“I… I used to believe love saves others from themselves. But I got over that sentiment when I had discovered the harsh truth. Only  _ you _ can save yourself, and only  _ you _ get to choose whether to love willingly, despite how unintentional your feelings were.”

_ Weimar never loved you _ .

“It is true; you cannot depend on love alone to live. I have learnt that in the hardest way possible.”

“I learnt it the hard way, too.”  _ Forty-five seconds _ . “But why did you suddenly start talking about it with me?”

“Well… maybe I’m just being nervous.”

He puts his arms on the ledge, staring at France. “Nervous about what?”

“About being in love all over again.”

_ Thirty seconds _ .

Something inside West deflates; she’s in love with someone else.

( _ Don’t be disappointed _ —  _ maybe she’s in love with  _ **_you_ ** _! _

He scoffs at that thought; who in their right mind would be in love with him when all he’s been in his life was a burden?

He’d just be a heavy weight on other people’s shoulders.)

“Oh, you are in love with someone?” He tries to hide the shaking in his voice, the hurt. Maybe he should just move on.

_ Thirty seconds _ .

“Yes, and he is such a  _ phenomenal _ man. I think I have come to accept the fact that my feelings for him cannot be controlled.”

“I see. Is he kind and courteous to you?”

“He is an odd one, but he shows his kindness in different ways! People get built differently and… I do not think that I have the right to judge him for it. I thought he was way out of my comfort zone, below my standards; then he started to skyrocket through my perspective and opinions about him.”

_ Fifteen seconds _ .

“You seem to love him a lot.” He’s not going to talk about his problems yet— he wants to let France finish.

He can hear firecrackers going off now, and a few fireworks have been making the rounds.

But he is still focused on her, only her, like she is the entire world.

_ Ten seconds _ .

“I do”, she takes a deep breath, as if she was preparing for this moment.

_ Nine seconds _ .

She goes back to staring at him, her dark blue eyes gleaming with emotion, her cheeks pink. “Germany, I have something to tell you.”

_ Eight seconds _ .

He blinks. “What is it?”

_ Seven seconds _ .

“The person I’m in love with...” She sucks in a breath in preparation.

_ Six seconds _ .

He tilts his head, confused. “I do not know why you’re disclosing this kind of information to me.”

_ Five _ .

She laughs, and it was like spring had come early as the moon fades away from the sun. “Oh, you oblivious boy.”

_ Four _ .

She leans forward until her face and West’s were in contact; West was frozen, as he stares at her with bated breath.

_ Three _ .

“ _ Allemagne _ , the person I’m in love with is  _ you _ .”

_ Two _ .

He blinks, processing this sudden turn of events, staring at her with bewilderment. “ _ Was _ ?  _ Mich _ ?”

_ One _ .

She laughs, saying “ _ Oui _ !” Before reaching for his collar and pulling him into a kiss, just in time for the fireworks to fly all across the sky.

Like it was a gift for his birthday.

He did not say no, as he buried himself into the kiss.

* * *

West coughs slightly during the meeting, before he started to cough multiple times, his throat burning. He’s embarrassed— he has disrupted this meeting multiple times now, and everyone is staring at him with both worry and apprehension in their eyes.

Britain sighs, before putting down their papers to address his coughing colleague. “Are you alright, West Germany? Sick?”

He covers up another cough, before nodding. “I think I am; my apologies for disrupting this meeting.”

“You shouldn’t have attended this meeting today if you were sick.”

“ _ Es tut mir Leid _ , I thought that my coughing would go away after a moment.”

“There’s medicine in one of the districts”, France speaks up, “since he doesn’t know the way, maybe I can personally guide him there?”

The perks of dating in secret— having a set ton of excuses when your significant other has a cold.

They nod, “Just hurry up and get back here immediately, all right?”

France chuckles, signalling West to follow her (too bad they can’t initiate physical contact with each other in public), “We will come back before you can say ‘tea’!”

Once they are out of the room, West immediately nods to France that she is allowed to touch him. She immediately puts her hands around his face.

“I  _ told _ you that giving me your jacket was a bad idea!” She scolds, “Now you have a  _ cold _ !”

“Well, you might’ve gotten a cold too if I hadn’t given you my jacket.” He replies as they continue to navigate through the hallways in strides. “You were  _ shivering _ .”

“Which is a proper response around  _ cold weathers _ , you know.”

“You might’ve gotten a really bad cold; I’m okay with getting sick because my immune system has gradually improved.” His eyes meet France’s smaller figure— she was so adorable. “Besides, the jacket was a nice fit on you.”

She stumbles, face turning red, before lightly clinging onto his arms. “You smooth beast, you.”

“You looked so small in it.”

“I know I’m tiny but you don’t have to rub your height in my face every time.”

“You wearing my jacket is adorable.”

“ _ You’re _ adorable.” She stands on her tiptoes just to give him a kiss on the cheek. “And handsome too. Sick, but handsome.”

“I still don’t believe I am, but that makes my day better.”

“I would kiss you on the lips if you didn’t have a cold.”

“At least we get to spend time with each other.”

* * *

West feels happy, enlightened at the fact that he does not have to feel alone or lonely anymore. These bright walls of white and bright light had made him feel nervous and anxious when he had first moved in, but now that he is used to it, he felt languid, apathetic.

It’s not like he stopped caring, of course… there are many pressing matters to talk about, but he feels like he can be torpid whenever there is nothing to be distressed about.

Besides, he’s stopped hyper-focusing on work— he decides that he’ll just pull an all-nighter whenever he needs to.

(And also because France kept on forcing him to rest.)

West plays with his blankets; soft as always, feeling himself melt upon touching one of them, before sighing.

This  _ has _ to be a dream.

It is like life made a one-eighty degree turn and gifted him the very thing he thought he could not have.

Happiness.

It feels…  _ strange _ to be on the receiving end of its attention.

Whenever he is happy, he flaps his arms in excitement and his voice becomes higher, which makes the others think that there was something wrong with him.

(“No wonder he was kept in an asylum.” He’s heard someone say when he got excited for the first time in public.)

It’s not that he’s embarrassed (why would he be?), it was because it is so bizarre to feel elated or giddy all the time.

When has he been truly happy, again?

Right; when East for the first time showed him her new teddy bear that she got from Weimar.

That was such a long time ago.

He remembered feeling happy and amazed at her for getting such a new toy.

God, every time he thinks about East… he feels like absolute crap.

He wants to know if she is okay in her other half.

Maybe he should just deal with this; it feels nice to be happy.

* * *

France puts her head in his chest, as he continues to read, feeling attachment to his books once again. It was a nice and serene afternoon, and spring is making its slow yet warm walk. He fixes his glasses, not minding the sudden weight on his chest.

“Your new novel’s selling like hotcakes”, he tells France, whose eyes were closed, resting. “I’ve seen tons of writers and readers praise it.”

“Your editing is compelling me to change multiple things in my story— in a good way.” She opens one of her eyes. “You know, if you decided to write a book, I bet it’s great.”

He sighs. “Well, if only I had the initiative to start writing— I’m a dull man with a dull mind.”

“I can help you get ideas, you know!”

“Oh no, I suppose I just need to find my own inspiration.” He lifts a hand, wanting to put it on her hair, before gaining common sense. “May I put my hand on your hair?”

“Just don’t pick apart the strands— I just fixed it today.”

He puts a hand on her hair; soft like pillows, smooth like ice. He closes his eyes, as he is brought back to his dream world.

“Wanna know a little secret?” He breaks the silence softly, and France lets out a soft but satisfied hum. “The first day of the year was my birthday.”

She whines at that statement. “You should’ve told me that.”

“It’s okay, I consider the kiss I got from you as my birthday present.”

“Your first kiss, I presume?”

“Yeah.” He feels heat rising in his cheeks— France was his first kiss.

She inclines her head up, “Don’t feel bad about it being your first kiss— I won’t judge your inexperience.”

“I won’t judge you for your experiences either.”

* * *

His dream this night was shared with East Germany; the first dream they had shared ever since the war had ended.

She was  _ good _ at cutting him off and blocking him from her head, to be honest.

West stands on his old bed, back when everything was still simple and safe.

Back when he was thought to be dead by the others.

He takes a deep breath, before letting out a loud, “ _ OST _ !”

It echoes throughout the entire house.

Then everything starts to fall apart; Ost’s doing.

His old bed lands on non-existent water, rippling in the void. There was nothing but smoky white fog; back when they started having dreams like these in their childhood, both of their minds were clear as glass.

Ost is hiding something.

Well, she  _ did _ build the Berlin Wall this year.

But West wants to talk to her.

Then from the depths of the fog, appears a silhouette.

_ Her _ .

He would’ve jumped out of his bed to welcome his sister, but that might mean falling into a lake of monsters.

And he’s seen what they can do.

She emerges from the fog, like she had decided to break through what made her East Germany. She was wearing the standard uniform in that area, her usually braided dark brown hair now chopped off roughly, as if it was a rush job.

She glares at her brother, before sighing. “You’re ridiculous.”

He stares at her, “I see I've gotten through the barrier you created.”

East scoffs, “And there’s a reason that the barrier was there in the first place,  _ dummkopf _ .”

West did not know whether or not she insulted him playfully— judging by her scowling face, she was insulting him seriously.

He brushes the imaginary dust off his clothing, before wiping the moisture off his glasses. “If you  _ have _ to insult me, you have to speak in a different language than German.”

“You’re a mess, West”, she says with a sigh— the tone was not fond either, like it was a fact.

He tilts his head. “You don’t look so good yourself.”

His sister scowls at him, and now he could see how heavily skinny and tired she was. “Did you just go through my head just to say that,  _ arschloch _ ?”

“Just an observation; you were the one who let your guard down and got me through your head.”

“Wow, did hanging out with capitalist pigs make you impolite now?”

“Did spending time with a bunch of communist thugs make you a rude and ill-bred woman already?”

The white sky ahead of them became darker, as both of them glared at each other, arms crossed.

West sighs, feeling all the more isolated from his sister. “Since you never wanted me here in the first place, I’ll just leave.”

“Good, because I don’t want a psychopath running around in my head— there was a reason as to why you were locked in that asylum.”

He falters. “I— I know.”

“ _ Auf Wiedersehen _ , West.”

A second later, all he sees is pure white fog, before he wakes up in his bed.

After a few minutes of processing what East had just said, tears started to run down his cheeks, staining his bed.

* * *

West cannot breathe.

It was like the air was sucked out of his lungs.

He drops his spoon, before dropping onto the floors on his knees, feeling his heart race. Every inch of his body feels numb, and he cannot move from his place. Everything started to swirl, and he trembles, feeling drops of sweat dripping down from his forehead.

From the corner of his eyes, France immediately kneels next to him, “West! Do you need help?”

But it sounds like she had been speaking in the water, and it had bounced all across the room. His glasses fall onto the floor, and now he can’t see her anymore.

_ Gott _ , he feels so pathetic.

Was he any good?

France stares at his pitiful image, before realizing what was wrong. She is suddenly in front of him, and in the softest yet firmest voice she could muster, she says, “ _ Allemagne _ , name five things you can see...”

* * *

France convinced him to accompany her to the beach; she said that they could cook  _ bratwursts _ after he had accompanied her.

He clings onto his towel, feeling the sand on his toes— he’s seen beaches and had stared at it from afar, but it was his first time in one. France, meanwhile, was running to the sea’s waves, kicking at the water, laughing.

" _ L'Allemagne _ , look!” She runs back to him and clings onto West’s arms, completely in her two-piece bikini, most of her skin exposed. He goes red just at seeing her bare shoulders and legs; he marvels at how completely confident he is, when he can’t even unwrap himself from his towel.

(No matter how many times France had persuaded him to take it off, he refuses, shaking his head silently.)

She points at the sunset, staring at it in wonder. “It’s so  _ beautiful _ .”

He sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Well, your beauty rivals the sunset.”

France chuckles. “I’ve heard that a  _ lot _ from other men, you know.”

“Oh no, was that bad? I’m sorry—”

She chuckles, putting her head on his chest, “No, I like hearing that.”

They both sit on the sand, staring at the sunset, holding each other, never letting go.

It was a good few minutes of West’s life.

That is, until he hears a camera shutter clicking.

Then his eyes widen, and he promptly untangles himself from France, standing. He looks around, alert, trying to find who would take a picture in the middle of the beach, only to find nothing but rocks and sand and towns.

“What’s wrong?” France asks, standing.

“I heard something— a camera shutter clicking.”

“You— you  _ did _ ?” She clutches her hair anxiously, “Oh no, this is bad— if people see you with me they’ll ostracize you further— oh  _ mon dieu _ , this is my fault I shouldn’t have pulled you into this!”

West holds her arms, trying to calm her down. “No, no  _ Frankreich _ , I agreed to come, and now we’re so dead.”

“I’m sorry for endangering your already fragile reputation,  _ mon amour _ .”

He kisses her forehead comfortingly, “It’s alright, I don’t care about that— what I care about how they’re going to perceive you after this.”

“What I’m thinking about is how they’re going to perceive you after this is leaked!”

Meanwhile, on a small and quaint diner from across town, someone was looking through the photos they had taken; France and Germany holding hands, looking at each other with obvious affection, her clinging on his arms, and them watching the sunset together.

Paris stares at the pictures, with worry and concern etched in his face.

“France… and…  _ West Germany _ ?” He whispers underneath his breath, surprised and apprehended.

* * *

West already notices the looks he’s been getting the next day— unfortunately, he still has not found the culprit of whoever took their photos without their assent.

Years of being discreet and slipping under the radar…  _ gone _ .

He didn’t like the attention he was getting— he feels scrutinized under their spider gazes.

Every step forward feels heavy.

But he really has a lot of work to do; mostly to find out who leaked the pictures.

He can also hear the whispers in the crowd.

“I thought France  _ hated _ West Germany! Why did she suddenly start acting like she likes him?”

“Did he manipulate her into falling in love with him the same way the Third Reich did to Vichy?”

“Good lord, isn’t this Vichy and the Third Reich all over again?”

The more he hears the parallels between his and France’s relationship, the more he feels guilty about it.

Did he really manipulate her into this relationship?

Maybe East was right— he  _ is _ a psychopath.

(“Am I a psychopath,  _ Frankreich _ ?” He asks between breaths, feeling tired and sluggish after she calmed him down from his meltdown.

(It was the first time someone helped him through this.)

She looks at him incredulously, “What? No, you aren’t a psychopath; you just express your feelings differently than anyone else, and that ain’t a crime. You were just born with another way to think and feel.”

That made him slightly better, and he sends her a faint smile to show her that he appreciates it.)

“ _ Allemagne _ !” A sweet voice erupts from the crowd, and suddenly, he feels a warm bump right next to him— even without her making physical contact with him.

That is how powerful she was.

He doesn’t need to turn around to know that it was France with him, acting like all was okay in the world.

West envies her composure, at how she can smile at him when her friends and family are scrutinizing her.

She clings on his arm when he brushes their hands together, and she stares up at him with those shiny blue eyes. “Let’s go to a cafe after work, shall we?” She says it so warmly, but sometimes she clenches her fingers around him, meaning that she was anxious as well.

He holds her a little closer, wanting those anxious feelings from her go away.

Well, he didn’t care that he was being stared at by a lot of people anymore.

* * *

“I did not expect this turn of events”, Austria says, taking a seat on West’s sofa gingerly, like he would be forced out of West’s apartment if he ever sits wrong. “I don’t know if the news and rumors going around this world is unwelcome or not.”

“What’s unwelcome? France and I are dating, or the fact that I had called you here in the first place?” West asks coldly, placing a tray of cups and kettle at the center of the coffee table. He pours the tea in the kettle into one of his cups, and Austria follows suit. “There’s a reason why you’re here,  _ Doctor _ .”

He says his profession like it’s the most hideous thing that he has ever spat from his mouth. Austria chooses to ignore it, preferring to take a sip of his tea.

“I assume you need my help with something.”

West sighs, “You’re correct. I just—” He clears his throat, trying to hide his shaking hands. “I want to know— like just a little— of— of how my father — Weimar — thought of me. Never really asked you what his impression of me was. Not good as a child, you know?”

He disregards the distressed and broken speech, before nodding. “I met with your father every few weeks whenever we were both free from work— he always had a  _ lot _ of things in his mind.”

“Wasn’t he— wasn’t he content? I don’t— don’t understand what I did wrong.” It seems that West’s stoic confidence crumbles whenever he talks about sensitive topics; he can see the scared and confused child below the maturity and sadness.

“You didn’t do anything wrong— how many times do I have to tell you that?”

“It’s not like you helped me against the Third Reich; you even  _ experimented _ on me.”

“I know you don’t trust my word. Even I had thought that your— your supposed illness is meant to be cured. But now I realize, it’s a part of you. A part of you that makes you different yet all the same from others. It wasn’t your fault, and Weimar should have treated you like you were a human being.”

“I’m not a monster, aren’t I?” West asks, pointing at his chest to emphasize his point. “I’ve seen— seen tons of people saying that I’m unfeeling, a psychopath if you will. I’m not like that, am I?”

“If you  _ are _ an unfeeling monster, then why do you have the ability to feel love?”

“Pardon?”

“How are you an unfeeling monster, when all I’ve seen from you was happiness, sadness, and love? Doesn’t that mean you are not a monster?”

“But… I’ve heard them all—”

“Do the opinions of others hinder your thought and feeling process? The way you feel and emote?”

He pulls at his hair, shaking his head. “Not really— I still think or feel the way I usually do.”

“Exactly. The only thing those comments and insults are affecting is your self-esteem and your opinion of yourself, but it wouldn’t make your condition go away just because of that.”

“But those comments and opinions about me… made me  _ me _ .”

“Then I suggest that you give in to more positive influences in your life; you’re in love with France, so why don’t you divert your energy from those ugly insults towards the things that make you overly happy?”

West blinks at him, before considering that option. “I— I will.  _ Danke _ ,  _ Österreich _ .”

“Any time.” He takes another sip of his tea. “Speaking of which, I know you’re currently dating France, but do you have any other friends?”

He thinks for a moment, before answering. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. I put hot porridge on him for being up on my business a few years back. But we are friends now. I think.”

* * *

“I’m considering marriage now”, West says— before he could get the entire sentence out, the Netherlands spits out the coffee he had been drinking onto the coffee table. He stares at it, “... Clean this mess up, please.”

“Sorry, sorry”, he apologizes between coughs, pulling out a few napkins to wipe the mess with. “It’s not like I’m surprised — you’ve been dating for like, almost ten years? — but I don’t know, you never ever pegged me as a man who’d get down on one knee and ask for her hand in marriage.”

West only stares at him.

“W-Well, that sentiment changed just a few seconds ago, after you gave me one of those faces, haha.” He crumples up all the napkins full of coffee stains, before crumpling and throwing them in one of the waste baskets in West’s home.

West places a small black box at the center of the coffee table, before opening it. Inside was a pair of two golden rings, with one ring studded with amethyst at the center and the other with diamond. “Do you think that she’ll like this?”

His friend stares at the jewelry, dumbfounded. “Is that the reason why you sold one of your properties to another benefactor? Because you’re now buried underneath the streets of poverty after you paid a large amount of money for the ring?”

“Yes, it turns out these things acquire a very hefty sum of money.”

“Obviously! Where did you even buy these kinds of rings?!”

“I read trivia books daily. Then there was a passing thought in my brain. Suddenly I drew up a pair of rings in a piece of paper. Then I gave them to a jeweler with a lot of cash. End of story.”

“... You’re serious about this marriage thing, are you?”

“I’m sure that we’ll be happy— we can make each other happy for as long as we desire.”

“Wow, um, is there a reason as to why you invited me here?” He asks, scratching his hair.

Much to his surprise, West puts a hand on his shoulder, his sky-blue eyes staring into his ocean-blue ones.

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

* * *

The cold night air whistles against his blonde hair, his skin tingling a little, as he hears the waves slosh back and forth to the shores in a small rhythm. The both of them walk on the sand barefoot, and every step they take, he feels the soft and grainy texture of the ground they were both walking in. It was highly miraculous that she had agreed into this, or he would have to redo the plan all over again.

(His friend is getting tired with all of his anxiety tidbits and practices, so he might as well get over it.)

The moon is shining above them, the stars decorating the night’s sky.

France clings on West’s arm, “Isn’t this night  _ so _ romantic?”

He gives her a small smile, “What if it becomes even  _ more _ romantic?”

She stares at him, before smirking. “Whatever you have in store tonight, I’m all ears— you brought us to Rügen!”

“You just kept surprising me at any given turn, that I felt guilty that I didn’t do the same thing for you.”

“Oh no,  _ Allemagne _ , don’t feel guilty about it; I only do that because I want to see you happy.”

“I want to see you happy too.” West pulls at his hair, nervous.

However, France had become perceptive after years of trying to figure out the cues and ways to make West comfortable. “West, are you alright? You’re pulling at your hair.”

He evades eye contact, “I am fine.”

“Are you nervous about something?”

“It’s— it’s the wind. Cold.”

“Oh!” She snuggles closer towards him, and warmth starts to fill his cheeks. She smiles up at him, “Is that better?”

“A— A lot, actually.” It doesn’t aid his rapidly beating heart and increasing tense feelings, but it reminds him of how lucky he was to be with her right now. He sighs, as they both sit on the sand, feeling the wind move the grains of sand around. “I have a question, France.”

She blinks up at him, before smiling. “Yes?”

“Do you want to ride on a boat with me?”

She laughs, playing with his hands, “But it’s already night!”

“It doesn’t stop him from doing his business, though.” He points at the boat near the water, with Rügen himself as the driver.

She gasps, before laughing merrily. France holds West by the hand as they trudge into the water to reach the boat, splashing each other with elated expressions on their faces. Once they got on the boat (West had pulled France up before getting on the vehicle himself), it started bobbing up the water at a slow pace.

She kisses him on the cheek. “You just made this night even more romantic.”

“There’s more where that came from”, West says, and she smirks at him with an interested look.

“What is it with you and catching me off guard whenever you do surprises like these?”

“Act even more surprised for the rest of the night.”

She chortles, “I can’t handle any more surprises.”

He smiles, “Then, can you answer this question?”

“What is it?”

“Why did you— why did you fall in love with me in the first place?”

She was taken aback with the question, but she answers a second after, nonetheless. “Well, I hated you initially, but then when Britain — and that damn publisher, too — forced us to work together and act civilly, well, I decided to give you a chance… begrudgingly. You were just so  _ sharp _ with my work, and your criticisms… well, I didn’t think that someone like you would inspire me to redo everything, and forced me to immerse myself into my characters.”

“Then when we started spending time together, I started learning about you, about yourself, outside of that cold persona that we believed and assumed it to be your default persona. I was wrong about you, and now I realize that you matter, that just because you’re different than anyone else… you don’t deserve to be ostracized. As for how I fell in love with you, well— those scarves were really cute in the first place.”

She turns to him, who was red all over. “Oh— oh  _ mon Dieu _ , did I do something wrong? Are you at loss for words?”

“Yes, I definitely  _ am _ at a loss for words”, he replies, pulling at his hair again; he  _ is _ nervous. “Maybe I can learn more from you on how to make others speechless.”

She lets out an unladylike chortle, before clearing her throat out of embarrassment (she usually let go of herself like that frequently, before she remembers a lot of men would not like it when she does things they deem unladylike). “Oh please, you already make beautiful speeches.”

“Maybe you are asking the same question, in your head.”

“How do you know?”

“Nothing, it was just a stupid assumption.”

“But do go on; I’m waiting for you to open your side of the story.”

“Well… I always found you beautiful, ever since I saw you for the first time.”

“A lot of people say that about me.” She says, putting her feet gingerly on the water as the boat moves.

“But I think I started considering my feelings and attraction towards you after the bar fight happened.”

She pers up, lifting her legs from the water. “You  _ remember _ that?” It was quite an embarrassing moment for her, as she had lost her composure in front of a few dozen people calling West a Nazi. In the end, she and West were kicked out of the bar after she had beaten up a few dozen people.

Sometimes, she can feel her cheeks warming from self-consciousness just at the thought of that.

He nods, petting her hair. “It’s when I started thinking about my feelings for you.”

France stares at him like the world was on fire once again. Then she laughs, looking at the skies sadly, much to his confusion. “I can’t believe it— even with someone I’m in love with, I managed to make an impression just from unladylike behavior.”

“What are you talking about?” She stares at him, who was standing, wind blowing in his hair. She stands as well, with a confused look on her face. He smiles at her, like she was the one able to make him fly. “It’s the reason why I fell in love with you in the first place.”

She stares at him, startled. “It— it was?”

“ _ Oui, c'était _ .” He says the word of affirmation in  _ French _ .

“Why— why are you speaking in—”

Then she hears the sound of a speedboat zooming in towards them.

France whips her head to the direction of the noise, before she takes a step back as the driver of the speedboat fires firecrackers all around them.

She narrows her eyes, trying to find out who the driver was, but she could not make his silhouette out from the darkness.

“I would’ve been condemning the explosives, but tonight is a special night”, Rügen says over all the noise.

She blinks, “What do you—”

“France.” Hearing this, her ears perk up, and she turns back towards Germany—

Who was down on one knee, with a box on one of his hands, his face with the most sincere smile on his face.

She was too surprised to say anything.

“ _ Frankreich _ , when I look at you, all I see are the stars combing around your head, showering you with a thousand praises and love.” He opens the lid of the box, which has a single golden ring studded with an amethyst jewel at the center. Her eyes were on it, and she took a deep breath. “I grew up where I thought only accommodating a person I love without even concerning myself with my own feelings was true love, and I thought that I was an unloveable monster with the way everyone treated me. But… you changed that sentiment over time.”

The firecrackers are muffled now; all she can hear is West’s voice, low and soft as the waves that rock their boat below them.

West takes a deep breath, before smiling back at her again. “ _ France, veux-tu m'épouser? _ ”

_ He pronounced those words correctly _ , France thinks to herself— gone were the days when she had to teach him the proper pronunciations of words in her language.

Her eyes shine, and tears trickle down her face as she hugs West lightly, but firmly enough so that he is aware of her emotions. “ _ Oui _ , West,  _ je t'épouserai _ .”

They kiss, and West lifts her up, her legs locking with his chest as fireworks fire all across the sky.

No matter how many times their lips touched, it still sends a tingling feeling down West’s spine.

He’s so  _ happy _ .

“When I signed up to help you, West, I did not expect a kiss! Eugh!” A familiar voice says, as the firecrackers fade.

The pair break their kiss and turn to face the Netherlands, who was driving the speedboat that was throwing firecrackers around.

West glares at him, “Out of all the things you can choose, you chose…  _ firecrackers _ .”

He shrugs, “It surprised the both of you, didn’t it?”

“Next time, just start shouting and hollering like you’re being torn apart by a wild boar.”

The Netherlands feigns a gasp of surprise. “Aw, you’re so mean, West! Was it because I kept telling you ‘no’ when you kept proposing to me?”

France snorts, looking up at West, whose cheeks were red. Then the blonde-haired man smiles, giving his now-fianceè a peck on the cheek, still lifting her up.

“I’ll move on from it one day,  _ Niederlander _ .”

* * *

“So, you’re the man who believes that you’re good enough for my daughter, eh?” Brittany asks, hands on her hips. Her strawberry blonde hair was short yet wavy, wearing a dark dress with a pink apron above it. She has dark grey irises, and she has the same eyes as France.

He can see where France got it from.

“Hm.” He hums passively, avoiding eye contact with her.

“What’s with that attitude, eh? Too intimidated by my presence?”

His fianceè (his heart still flutters with that word) tugs at her mother’s apron, laughing a little. “ _ Mère _ , please, he’s not very comfortable with eye contact.”

“And you!” She faces her sheepish looking daughter. “How could you not tell your dear mother that you were dating someone and are now  _ engaged _ to them? Did you forget about your beloved mother?”

“No, no Mama— I wrote a lot of letters to you, since you always stay here in your small little home.”

“Letters are  _ not _ enough for me to know that you were dating someone you’re supposed to hate!” Brittany bellows, enough for West to cover his ears nonchalantly. “But then again, I would prefer anyone who is not Britain, so he passed the first test.”

“You never liked  _ Bretagne _ , or any other men in the first place, Mama.” She says as the three of them entered Brittany’s home— it looked small on the outside, but it was quite spacey and comfortable on the inside. “You must’ve been happy when we broke up.”

She nods, “Oh yes, I was— did you read the letter I sent you asking my beautiful, baby daughter to move in with me after you split up?”

She sighs, “Mother, I am not a baby anymore. I can take care of myself.”

Brittany eyes West, who was eyeing the trinkets with interest. She whispers in a low voice, “I’ve only heard rumors from the other cities and provinces — mostly from Paris — about him. He seems quite a standoffish and socially awkward man, stuck in his own world most of the time. What do you even  _ see _ in him?”

She scoffs, “Oh please, you haven’t met him properly yet.” She turns to West, who was poking at the fireplace like it was an oddball. “West, sweetie, come here!”

He immediately perks up with attention and joins in on the mother and daughter. “Mm?”

“Mother, this is West Germany— my fiancè, and West, this is Brittany, my mother. I’ll make dinner tonight. And mother, please be patient with him, he’ll talk when he needs to talk.”

Brittany shrugs, “Fine, but how am I going to talk to him?”

“If he talks first. If he doesn’t want to continue the conversation, leave it be. He’s prone to get overwhelmed sometimes.”

Brittany sits down on her sofa, and West sits on the other end of it.

Silence.

Then West turns towards her, “Is it true that your marriage with the French Kingdom was just for political gain?”

Brittany blinks, before furrowing her brows at such an offensive and generic question. “Of course it was! No love ever came from our marriage, except for my little ball of sunshine that is France!”

And the conversation continues from there.

* * *

Today was his wedding day, which is the happiest day of his life.

But all he is feeling is the prickling tension and anxiety of having to practice his vows out to a thousand people.

And his sister would not even be there to celebrate with him!

So that is why he is in a fetal position at the corner of the room, rocking back and forth, trembling, and pulling his hair.

The men near him are trying to coax him out of the room, just to be on time for the ceremony that was about to start.

He’s screaming on the inside.

France is so confident, but he is not— why can’t he just pick up on social cues easily?

“ _ Oh mijn God, Duitsland _ ”, the Netherlands says, sitting down right next to him with a respectable distance, putting on his tie. “What are you worried about now?”

“A  _ lot _ of things”, he replies softly; he cannot ignore or tune out the other voices in the room, with all the roughhousing and whatnot.

Once again, he is reminded that he lives in his own world, different from any of them.

“Like what?”

He fiddles with his fingers, “Like— like the venue, or the guests, the invites! And then there’s the food, and the service, and the rooms, the honeymoon— oh  _ Gott _ the honeymoon! I completely forgot— I’m afraid— I don’t think I can— ugh satisfy her enough.” He puts his head back in his legs. “Don’t worry. I’ll get up and feign confidence until honeymoon time. Tell them I have a stomach ache so I can look my absolute best there.”

The Netherlands titters, “Okay, so you’re afraid everything will go wrong in the wedding?”

“Y-Yes! And besides, everyone invited by France  _ hates _ me. I don’t think I can handle a straight face when everyone is judging and glaring at me behind my back. It makes me feel bad. Makes me feel very bad.”

The Netherlands opens his mouth to speak, but he calls it down when Canada and Luxembourg approach the pair.

“Is he done feeling sorry for himself?” Canada asks.

Canada and France’s other children found something to agree mutually with— whoever France is happy with, they will support her. It doesn’t mean that they grew to like West Germany, though. There is still suspicion in their eyes, but at least they act civil towards him.

“He’s  _ fine _ ”, the Netherlands replies, “just having a small crisis.”

“No, just a big and impactful crisis.” West speaks up.

“West, no.”

“What’s he saying?” Canada turns to him.

“He’s anxious about the wedding; thinks he’ll screw up.”

“Well, he  _ won’t _ screw up if he gets out of here and into the arbor!” Luxembourg replies, “Everyone’s a’waitin’.”

“Son, don’t raise your voice like that.”

“Sorry.”

The Netherlands turns back towards his friend, “What are you concerned about, West?”

“Like I said, many things. Especially about the wedding night.”

“Oh…  _ oh _ .”

“Don’t think I’m good enough to satisfy her. She had many men before me, what if I can’t satisfy her enough?”

“Cool down, dude”, the Netherlands says, reaching up to tap him on the shoulder, before realizing what he was about to do before putting it down. “You’re talking to one of her exes right here! The entire wedding night will be a blast if you  _ both _ indulge on your desires. Create boundaries, stay in your comfort zone until you’re sure you want more. You know, that kind of thing!”

“I’ve read all kinds of books about  _ that _ kind of topic”, West rambles on, his hands expressing what his face could not. “It’s not that it looks weird and uncomfortable, it’s the fact that I think I’m going to fail giving her what she wants.”

“Brother, you need to be calm”, he replies. “Who  _ cares _ if you’re still a virgin before marriage! France definitely doesn’t care! There’s no need to be ashamed of your lack of experience— because you’re about to gain experience  _ tonight _ .”

“I would assume that was an innuendo.”

He laughs, “It is!”

“I feel… I’m still anxious and worried that something will go wrong, but my legs are now strong enough to carry me.”

Britain pokes their head in the doorway, “Vatican — that bloke — is throwing a fit because you’re not there yet, West.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” He puts on his suit and bowtie, fixing his hair and taking his glasses off, before making his way towards the arbor.

Britain meets with him halfway there, with a supportive smile. “You’re a good match for France; don’t forget that, okay?”

West gives Britain a small smile. “Right.”

So he continues to walk.

To the happiest day of his life.

* * *

Boxes were everywhere; stacked in neat little towers, while others were messily scattered around France’s house.

He brushes off the beads of sweat that are forming on his head. He looks at the living room, fully stored in the boxes— no wonder why France had needed help with her furniture, there were a  _ lot _ of things that she did not wish to part with.

But the dust and the way the boxes are scattered makes him somewhat irritated. He sighs, before slapping himself in the face. He continues packing the things that need to be packed into the boxes.

(It only took him less than a day to pack because all he needed to pack were the books, blankets, clothes and sofas; he refused to part with them willingly as well.)

He looks up to find France descending downstairs with a box full of books. “ _ Frankreich _ ! Do we need to pack these dumb sofas?”

She laughs, “No, no, I admit that they also look stupid and dumb, too.” With a huff, she places her box of books on the table. She sighs tiredly. “I don’t know what I should pack or sell.”

“Why don’t we sell the stupid sofas you own?” He says, patting the armrest of the sofa like a child. “I’m sure other families with poor taste would love to buy it.”

“Why do you hate my sofas so much?” She asks, laughing.

“‘Cause it’s bright. Very neon. Don’t like.”

“Okay, okay, I’m definitely selling that. I never really liked that kind of sofa, anyway.”

“But I like you.”

She kisses the top of his forehead. “We both know you do.”

“So, what region are we going to set up our house in, anyway?”

“Probably somewhere near our countries’ borders”, she says with a shrug. “What about in Strasbourg?”

“Offenburg.”

“Strasbourg.”

“Offenburg.”

“We’re getting nowhere with this little argument; let’s build our house in the Rhine river!”

He shakes his head. “ _ Nein _ !”

She laughs, “If we can’t find middle ground on where we’re staying, then let’s just build our home in the Rhine River and live there!”

He tilts his head. “... Are you sure? If the building isn’t stable enough, the foundation will collapse and we will drown.”

France gives him a soft smile, patting his head. “It’s just a small joke, we can figure something out.”

“Ah.” He buries himself into France’s body, forgetting that he was supposed to help her pack.

* * *

They were having dinner in their new home one night, when West noticed something strange about France.

Well, she had been acting strange for the past few weeks, with her being moody and sluggish. She also had this morning sickness, untangling herself from West’s arms, getting out of bed so that she could vomit in the nearest toilet.

Now, he’s read about what is troubling France, and has come to one conclusion— but he is not one to delve in assumptions, so he waits for his wife to tell him what is troubling her.

“How was the meeting today, sweetie?” She asks in a soft voice, eating everything on her plate at a fast rate. “Did they agree with your proposal?”

“Not quite”, he replies, only selecting food that was not touched by the frying pan. “But they did say that they will take my suggestions into consideration.”

“That’s a better option than — say — already giving it a veto.”

He nods. “Agreed. Did you progress with your writing today?”

She grimaces, leaning back on her chair. “I only wrote a hundred words for today— it seems like my brain doesn’t want to write anymore these days.”

He taps her extended hand supportively, “It’s okay, sometimes our mind blanks whenever we are not inspired to do something. Take time off of writing and find something else you like to indulge in!”

She laughs, “Maybe I’ll do that,  _ amour _ .”

He smiles, before placing their bottle of wine at the center of their dinner table. It was always customary for the both of them to indulge in a few glasses of gin. But these days, France has been avoiding asking for a glass of wine; she doesn’t even finish her fully filled glass. “Shall we?”

France stares at it with a hesitant look, before regaining her composure. “Let’s.”

He pours the wine into two glasses, before taking a sip of his. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches France stare at her drink, before continuing to eat.

Okay, he’s legitimately curious.

“ _ Frankreich _ , may I ask you something?”

She looks up at him, “What is it?”

“Well, I can’t help but feel like you’ve been hiding something from me.”

“Hide something from you? I would never do that!”

“Well, you’ve been acting really moody lately, acting tired and sluggish, refusing to eat wine, and have a rather unhealthy craving towards every sweet, devouring them on a daily basis.” He holds her hands, “Are you alright? Do you need my help?”

France stares at him, before smiling. “Come close, I got something to tell you.”

He leans in, to the point his ears were now close to her lips (he has to stand, too).

“ _ Je suis enceinte _ .” She says it in French, but he already knows what it means.

He stares at her out of surprise and bewilderment for a little while, and he immediately starts to laugh, putting his arms around her, flapping his arms.

“I’m going to be a father!” He says with a small hiccup. “And you’re going to be a mother!”

“For the fourth time, but yes.” She ruffles his hair as he continues embracing her. “You’re going to be a father.”

* * *

His back was hunched over his work, as he taps the keys of the typewriter, writing reports in the middle of the night. His eyesight was horrendous even with his glasses on— he has been working day-to-night without rest.

He should not rest; France deserves a competent and hard working husband, working to ensure the health and safety of her and their baby.

_ Baby _ .

Despite the fact that he keeps on hearing that word, time and time again… he feels his skin tingle with happiness.

He was about to become a father.

But that would mean more work and stress for the both of them, especially for France.

That’s why he is working— so he can give his child the happiness he never had as a child back then.

(There are still some scars left.)

West yawns, ignoring how tired he is— he usually stays up like this late at night whenever France lets him (which is rare), basking underneath the low light of his lamp, trying to get his work done.

Then he hears the door open.

His bent back straightened, and he turned his chair around so that he could see who had intruded upon his studies.

He rubs his bleary eyes, blinking. “ _ Frankreich _ ? What are you doing out of bed? What about the baby? You?”

France stares at him with a look of worry— why was she worried? “West, sweetie, you haven’t been sleeping in our bed for a few weeks now.”

“It’s okay  _ Frankreich _ , I was working here.”

“You’ve been working a  _ lot _ lately.” She sits next to him, one of her hands on her baby bump. She was already showing— a small bump on her belly.

It was enough to make him feel like he’s soaring through the skies.

He holds her hand gently. “It’s alright, I am working for our child’s future,  _ our _ future.”

She sighs, “Not when you’re wasting away in your office, spending less time with your family and friends.”

He tilts his head, “I thought that— that you said we have to work harder to ensure our baby has a better life than we all do?”

“I didn’t mean overworking yourself to the verge of passing out, dear.”

He stares at her, before groaning, rocking back and forth. “Oh— oh no, I— I didn’t mean— I just wanted what was best for our—  _ scheiße _ .” He pinches the bridge of his nose, his mind and thoughts calling him stupid, a dumbass, an annoying man.

West didn’t stop them from lowering his self-esteem.

“I know you want the best for our child, but I also want you near me. I don’t want you to be distant from me.”

“ _ Je suis désolé _ .”

“It’s alright, I understand why you did it.”

He fixes his papers, before standing. “Let’s get out of this messy office— I can’t stand looking at it when I have you.”

France titters, and they both make their way back to the bedroom, pecking each other on the cheeks and saying ‘good night’, to each other in their respective languages.

* * *

West paces back and forth near the hospital room, his hands subconsciously pulling at his hair. He takes a few deep breaths, muttering comforting words to himself as he looks at the window, before shaking his head worriedly and goes back to walking, faster than before.

“You look like your wife’s about to die”, the Netherlands speaks up from where he was sitting; he could use the silence to comfort himself, yet his friend just broke it with an unnecessary remark about France’s wellbeing.

He glares at him, “That was  _ uncalled for _ ,  _ Niederlander _ .”

He raises his arms up to his elbows, “And you don’t need to smack me for that this time, I know I went too far.”

West scoffs, thinking to himself about what he should do when their child is born to this world. “You deserved that smack, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I am the cruelest man to have ever lived in the entire world.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous.” He stares back at the window reflecting his wife in labor, before biting his lips and pulling his hair. “ _ Gott _ … I’m going to be the worst father ever, aren’t I?”

“Where did that dumb assumption come from? The back of your mind?”

“I don’t know whether that is sarcasm or a joke, but yes, it came from the back of my mind.”

“Stop entertaining it!”

“I can’t— it’s already tying into my anxieties and fears as of now.”

His friend sighs, standing. “I’m not Austria, so take this with a grain of salt— why are you thinking that you’re already becoming a bad father to your kid who hasn’t even taken a breath in our world yet?”

“Because there seems to be a pattern of horrible fathers in the Germanic line!” He replies, fretting over the subject. “The Holy Roman Empire was neglectful and forgetful about his children; Austria kept his daughter locked in her own world, before she was forced to grow up; Prussia spoilt the German Empire rotten, which influenced his lifestyle; Deutsches Reich did not like Weimar because he believed he was a bastard and hated his ‘feminine hobbies’; and—” He takes a deep breath, “Weimar — and by extension, the Third Reich — he made my sister suffer and threw me in an asylum just for behaving differently than most people.”

The Netherlands stares at him, before pointing a finger at him. “Where— where did you get all that information from?”

“I read some of my ancestors’ diaries that were lying around the place.”

“You  _ read _ someone’s private proper—”

“But that’s not the point— the point is that I believe being a bad father is either inherited or a curse in our family. I don’t  _ want _ to have it.”

“... You do realize that being a shitty father is a choice, right?”

“I— I  _ know _ that being a bad father was made by the thoughts, ideals, their absolute egotism on how they can control a child’s life, but  _ how _ do I break away from the horrible choices my father and my ancestors made?”

“Um, I don’t know— respect your kid like you respect adults and… support your child?”

West nods, vigorously, mentally taking notes down in his head. “Those are really good takes and opinions; perhaps I should read more books about fatherhood if this is the case.”

He flaps his arms in excitement— he is both nervous and exhilarated to become a father.

He promises to keep them both safe forever.

* * *

“Where is EU?” West asks, untying his tie, putting it on the coat rack as France helps him with unbuttoning his suit until he is in his undershirt. He notices EU’s absence as soon as he walks in the living room— his son would frequently greet him at the door, with a drawing of them together or a gift.

“He’s in his room”, she replies with a concerned look. “He hasn’t come out for dinner.”

“Why is he upset? What happened?”

“His teacher called me a few hours after he left— she stated that he bit someone in class.”

West blinks, “He bit someone? Why?”

She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t tell me why; his mouth is pried shut. I’m worried for him, I tried everything I can to coax him out of his room.”

“It’s okay”, West replies, kissing her on the cheek, “I’ll go check up on him, alright?”

She nods, “Okay— you seem to understand him the most, anyway.”

It is true; from when EU had been young, West is able to understand him not getting the social cues, is patient with him, and does not force him to speak when he doesn’t want to.

It’s just making him check off everything in his mental checklist.

He knocks on EU’s door softly. “ _ Schatz, Papas Zuhause _ .”

“ _ Hallo _ , Papa.” A soft voice comes out from the other end of the door.

“Do you want me to come inside?”

“ _ Nein _ .”

“Do you want to come outside?”

“ _ Nein _ .”

“Okay, but do you want me to stay here and keep you company? Before your mother calls me to dinner, I mean. Are you hungry yet?”

“ _ Ja _ ,  _ und nein _ .”

“Okay.” He sits down on the cold hard ground— he’ll just have to endure it so that he can talk to his son. “How was your day, sweetie?”

“It was, um… not good. I got in trouble today. Because I bit a boy in my classroom.”

“Why did you bite him?”

“Because he kept on demanding me to stop flapping my arms or pulling my hair ‘cause it’s weird! And he keeps pushing his face onto me! I didn’t like it, and no matter how many times I have signalled him to stop it, he didn’t listen. So I bit him.”

“That kid was really mean to you, wasn’t he?”

“ _ Ja _ , I keep telling him to back off but he won’t! Are you mad that I did that?”

Memories flash right by West’s eyes. “No… I’m not mad.”

“R-Really? Why? Isn’t this the type of thing that makes parents like you and mama angry?”

“Well, if we didn’t get the full story, we  _ would _ be angry”, he is currently toying with the carpet laid out on the floor. “But since you gave me the full story… I find your reason sensible. You want to hear a story?”

“ _ Ja _ , I love stories.”

“Well, back when I was a child—” He sighs, reminiscing the old days, back when he hadn’t realized that his life was being wasted away. “I was forced by my father to play outside, since my sister was quite a social butterfly. There was this boy, who kept on befriending me, who lacked the comprehension of personal space… and, well, I bit him.”

“You bit someone too?”

West nods, even when EU cannot see him. “I did, and for the same reason as you.”

“Wow… I have many things in common with mama and papa.”

“Yes you do, because you are  _ unser kleiner Engel _ .”

His son giggles softly at that remark.

“West! Dinner’s ready!”

“Do you want me to leave you, EU?” He asks, still not getting up from the floor, waiting for his son’s response.

“It’s okay, you need to have a full belly when you sleep.”

He hums, standing. “This conversation was quite enlightening, EU— don’t hesitate to share when you  _ want _ to share.”

When he is at the dinner table, seated across France, he tells her everything that EU had told him.

She furrows her brows, “Why, I think that little cretin deserved it!”

West continues to eat. “I figured as much.” His eyes make contact with her, “I think that our son has the same condition as me.”

France blinks, before smiling. “Hm, now I can see the resemblance.”

“Does this mean that autism is genetic?”

She shrugs, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “Genetic or not, I still love you both the same.”

* * *

He comes to her crying one night, hugging her tightly, refusing to let go. Admittedly, seeing him break into tears just when he got home surprised and worried her.

“I’m sorry”, he whispers that into her ear, before repeating it in German, and then in French.

France nuzzles into him, “What are you sorry about?”

“About— about passing my condition down to our son.”

She kisses his hands, “Why are you sorry about that?” She hopes he doesn’t recognize the incredulous tone she was sporting; she knows that having a child with the same condition as his father would be a challenge for the both of them, but she’ll treat them kindly, wanting to envelop them in a world where she will understand and support their needs, even when other people don’t take the chance to understand them.

“Because— because that would mean our child would have to face the same things I have to face when I was growing up.”

“Oh, dear”, she gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Do you think I’d want to shun our son? I want to understand him and his needs as well. And I want to be there and support him, no matter what happens. It is the other children and adults that won’t bother to understand EU, and we have to prepare him for that, don’t we?”

West nods into her shoulder, and she gives him another comforting pat— this time on his hair.

“May I repeat myself? I love you, and our son, and I believe that just because you were born different, doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t be treated differently.”

He buries his face in her neck. “I love you too.”

* * *

“West!” He hears a familiar voice— a voice he has not heard in real life for almost thirty years.

He freezes in his place, watching as everyone reunite with their families, friends, and relatives from the other side of the Berlin Wall.

Oh, if he could only be one of them.

“West!” He hears that voice again, but this time it was louder; he just didn’t know where she was.

“ _ Ost _ !” He results in following her shouting his name, gaining the ability to walk again, trying to navigate his sister from the masses. “ _ Ost _ !”

He wants to see his sister again.

He wants to embrace her again.

“West!” He hears his name again; this time it was near, quite near.

His blue eyes wander in front of him—

And then his eyes gleam with longing and excitement, his lips curving into a smile. “ _ O-Ost _ ?”

Her emerald green eyes glint back at him, tears already streaming down her face. “ _ Ja, ja, ich bin es, Bruder _ .”

With a cry of joy, the two divided siblings — now reunited — hugged as the Berlin Wall fell to its ruin with the noise of a thousand thunderstorms.

The moonlight luminates their crying and broken figures, letting them bask in the remaining light as dusk transitions into night.

There is nothing that the others can do to waver their faith and love for one another.

Nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, i would've included many other things, like the Netherlands, Britain, and West Germany's friendship (i always thought of West being the coldest person in that friend group, tho he cares a lot abt his friends), how East reacts to West being wed to France (she doesn't like her at first lmao), then EU meeting East for the first time, or just the talks abt the reunification of Germany  
> but my hands said no more, so i stopped at the best possible ending i could give y'all. this was supposed to be a LOT shorter than expected, but once again, i became a lot wordy and the one-shot got out of hand quickly lol  
> and yes, my ch stories have an established continuity, and i plan to explore more of them somewhere in the future, so hurray for more fics!  
> (please get me out of this fandom)


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